


Slipping Through His Fingers

by Disishistory



Series: A Ghost in My Soul - (The Fox) [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: (except it's 10 not 5), 5 Times, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom Dutch van der Linde, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Chapters can somewhat be read as One-Shots, Developing Relationship, Dutch and Hosea are Switches, Eventual Smut, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Making Love, Near Death Experiences, Not Beta Read, Physical Intimacy, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Canon, Pre-Video Game: Red Dead Redemption 2 (2018), Sharing Body Heat, Sweet, The Great Kettering Incident, This starts soft and will keep on being soft but will also go dark, top hosea matthews
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:15:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 73,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26084785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Disishistory/pseuds/Disishistory
Summary: Dutch van der Linde is staring at his fingers. For each of them, there’s a time when he held Hosea Matthews like the world was gonna end the next morning.(Prequel to "The Fox")
Relationships: Hosea Matthews/Dutch van der Linde
Series: A Ghost in My Soul - (The Fox) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1893745
Comments: 49
Kudos: 73





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> On a fateful day, I saw [this incredible piece of fanart](https://the-curious-couple-fanart.tumblr.com/post/624030824528019456/therere-so-many-other-beds-yes-i-know-it) made by The-Curious-Couple-Fanart.
> 
> And I got inspired.

The gold of the sun has faded into silver under the coat of thin autumn clouds, and Dutch van der Linde is staring at his fingers.

They’ve held many things, his fingers. Bottles, glasses, coins and bills. Guns, knives, suffocating throats and shivering thighs. Wood, grass, a horse’s mane and reins.

Gold. Dust.

And _him_.

Hopes and dreams had remained intangible in his grasp, but _his_ fingers… They’d been more real than all the musings that ever marred the flesh of his own brain.

Those fingers had belonged to hands he would always know. He would always know those arms too, those shoulders, that back. _Chest, legs, throat and eyes—_

He’d clung to that man’s body more than once and in more beautiful ways than the wind could carry tumbleweed through the plains. He’d known him like the sky knows the sun and the moon. He’d known the constellations of his veins, the melted stars that had burned hotter in his blood than madness in the minds of men.

Dutch van der Linde is staring at his fingers and sees the back and the pair of shoulders and the arms they’d known so well. _Feels_ them again.

He’s pressing his front against that pliant yet proud spine, tangling their legs together until there’s no knowing where either of them begins or ends.

_Holding_.

He can even feel the shift in the air, the way his lungs and tongue anticipate the blending of their smells and the chorus of their breathings.

He’s lying still, but the tendons of his wrists are twitching like they’re reaching for that sealed door hidden in the farthest reaches of his mind, a door behind which he knows he’ll find the tattered mirage of a man.

A man holding another.

His chest to _his_ back, his hands clinging to _his_ fingers, his arms keeping _his_ body in a tight embrace with the insane hope they could become and remain one.

Dutch van der Linde is staring at his fingers. For each of them, there’s a time when he held Hosea Matthews like the world was gonna end the next morning.

Dutch stares. And remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is VERY short but... Don't worry, _I got a plan!_  
>  This is but the mere prologue. The actual chapters will be much _much_ longer... and chapter 1 and 2 are already written but I must deal with some stuff at home (namely, my parents' newly acquired puppy). Chapter 1 needs some further polishing but you can expect it to be posted later today (have faith!)
> 
> Also please do check [The-Curious-Couple-Fanart](https://the-curious-couple-fanart.tumblr.com)'s tumblr!! Her art is WONDERFUL.


	2. The First Time They Felt Cold Like Death

“You’re cold, my friend.”

A new gust of wind hit their flanks, a blade forged in coldness, sinking right into their flesh. Its howl sounded like the curse of some old witch of the wilds, but it wasn’t enough to completely engulf the scoffing and shivering ‘ _hmmph’_ uttered by the man riding on his left.

“R—really? And here I was thinkin’ we were havin’ a stroll in goddamn Arizona.”

A chuckle rose in Dutch’s throat but was blown away by the building white storm that was closing on them. Minnesota could have the meanest of winters. Its pine and larch forests provided all the charms of secrecy but only in exchange for the dangerous promise of a deadly maze once snow and mist flooded their natural corridors. Empress neighed in discomfort and fatigue, shaking her black mane under the assault of the elements. Dutch silently patted her neck, keeping his grasp strong but flexible on her reins.

“Well, you been pretty quiet all of a sudden,” he drawled, not quite succeeding in hiding the trembling of his voice.

Hosea gave him a tense shrug, and although it was impossible to tell because of the damn wind, the gesture might have also carried a chuckle. “You’re clearly not hearin’ the sound of your own teeth. Also, it’s Minnesota, so what can you expect? … _G—God_ , whose idea was that again?”

“The law's?” Dutch offered with an irony a tad too mirthful given the current weather. “Couldn’t be _our_ idea.”

“No, we’re not that dumb, clearly,” Hosea said, his pitch rising to counter the ever-increasing noise of the blizzard. He and Dutch shared a quivery laugh, incapable of not finding a form of amusement in their own predicament.

Hosea’s expression tensed instantly when the inside of his mouth experienced the bite of the cold. “Goddamn bastards,” he hissed. “Pushing us off to this place. They’re probably enjoying some good, hot, juicy beef in their homes while we’re freezing our balls dodging our way to Ohio.”

Dutch let out an envious groan at the fiercely appetizing vision as Hosea exhaled a shaky breath, coughing in his navy blue scarf.

Dutch frowned. “How are those tubes of yours?”

“I’ll be fine, Dutch. As long as we don’t get lost. That nasty cold was gone one week ago. _You_ should tighten that scarf before you get yourself a lung fever.”

The heavy curtain of snow beating against their skins and coats couldn’t conceal the smirk tugging at Hosea’s lips. Dutch’s subsequent sigh was as amused as it was disgruntled.

“Didn’ know I’d be bringin’ Mother Hen with me on this trip,” he said, drawing up his freshly acquired crimson scarf to the bridge of his nose nonetheless. The fabric was still smooth against his skin and thick enough to grant him some semblance of warmth—courtesy of Hosea’s nimble hands between their last two jobs in Indiana.

“You started it. Anyway, we shouldn’t be too far from the cabin now. Ten minutes, I’d say.”

Dutch squinted at the thickening white cloud that was swallowing the hoofprints left by their mounts and their shadows.

“H-how can you tell in this blizzard? Goddammit, it’s _cold!_ ”

“The rocks over there,” Hosea answered with a grind in his voice, shooting an arm to the distant and barely perceptible ridge stretching to their right, towering only a few feet above a blurry sea of trees. “Never use trees to remember your way back in those regions. We better hurry, though. Soon won’t be able to see past the horses’ ears if this goes on.”

He gently spurred Diamond Ace into a trot, and the old chestnut mustang dutifully quickened his pace through the dense white coat that kept hindering their stride. Dutch nodded, the muscles of his shoulders jerking under the assault of frozen needles that were piercing through his muscles and were threatening to sink into his very bones despite the fur coat weighing heavy on his frame.

Empress’s sturdy legs seemed to regain confidence as she fell into the rhythm imposed by Diamond Ace, relieved to see her equine companion take the lead. It would have been one of those peaceful silent rides had it not been for the ever-growing storm fighting so tough to slow their progression.

Dutch had resented silence as a young boy. He used to see it as some hungry void, a pit that could suck out dreams as well as all the comforts of his narrow childhood home that his mother would roam all day long like a goldfish stuck in its glass bowl, bound to reduce him to the same unbearable state until he forgot how to speak and then how to _think_. She hadn’t meant anything bad by it, so unaware of her own aimlessness. But the main tragedy was that she mostly hadn’t meant anything _at all._

With the fissured door of that house snapped shut behind him and years of wandering ahead set to teach him new words and help him perceive and comprehend all these worlds boiling outside and inside of him, he’d come to consider silence the apathetic manifestation of pure meaninglessness, the final degradation of man. He’d held it for an indisputable fact, as evident as Euclidean geometry.

Until he met Hosea.

At first, he’d made silence intriguing. Not a dark chasm but a curtain shrouding some kind of puzzle. The puzzle had then revealed itself a tapestry, continuously woven with the thread of their partnership; its overall pattern was hardly describable, but whatever it was, it belonged to them. Silence had thus gotten comforting between the two of them—in places Dutch didn’t know comfort had been needed—easy to read and relish, like a child’s first book.

The world had its silences and Dutch and Hosea had _theirs._

They were perhaps freezing to death in this godforsaken mountainous forest, but Dutch was willing to hold on to that silver lining to keep his darker considerations at bay. He’d known Hosea long enough by then to understand that the man riding in front of him was doing the same thing. There wasn’t much to say in this white maelstrom. They were tired and frozen to the bone, and if Hosea said they’d be home, then they’d be home.

Nevertheless, the wind was blowing stronger with each passing minute. His fingers were now so cold inside his gloves that even closing them into fists wasn’t enough to restore the warm sensitivity they craved. He could barely catch a glimpse of the steam coming out of his or Empress’s noses anymore, as gusts swept it away like they were trying to snuff out every trace of warmth from the surface of the world. The snow was whipping his exposed cheeks and eyelids—so much he could hardly make out the ridge Hosea was using as their beacon—while his teeth clattered louder and more erratically than they’d been half a minute ago.

Hosea’s back was bowing forward, his shoulders stiffly hunched in a vain attempt to prevent the escape of heat. Echoes of his nerve-wracking coughs and visions of his sweat-drenched forehead were still too fresh in Dutch’s mind for comfort. Hosea may have recovered, but only a week ago, and that ‘cold’—as Hosea would call it—had been a _nasty_ one. Hosea was always so prompt to jump back up on his feet whenever hit by a fist, a bullet or sickness—quicker than Dutch, for that matter—but that coughing of his wasn’t truly gone, and that weather was the last thing he needed. Despite the storm’s ability to bend one’s perception of time, Dutch knew for a fact that dusk was upon them. If they got lost and couldn’t reach before night the small abandoned cabin perched on that rocky hill where they’d set their camp two days prior, they were as good as dead. Dutch already felt like all the nerves of his extremities were made of white-hot iron.

“ _H-Hosea…_ ” he hissed painfully.

And then, with as much warning as when they’d gotten caught by that storm on their ride back from the town down the valley, the swirling of snow simply _died_ around them, fading into a veil tearing into thin bands when hitting their horses’ ankles, as if the wind had been cut off from the grey skies and their suspended water. Invisible icy squalls were still blowing hard and slashing at them through their clothes, but the air around them slowly cleared, with nature emerging as if a spectral hand was redrawing its lines and curves over the grey mist that had descended upon it. The small cliffs that Hosea had been following turned from intangible shadows into solid stone guides, uncompromising before the assaults of the snowstorm.

Diamond Ace jerked his head and snorted in what Dutch could only interpret as relief. The old stallion’s reaction to their stroke of luck had Hosea huff a subdued ‘ _ha!_ ’ of triumph. “Nearly there, old boy.” The mustang bobbed his head again. The intensity of the wind gusts temporarily abated just enough to allow Dutch to catch Hosea’s quiet reassurance: “Yeah, I know, you’ll get your treats, you greedy gremlin.”

The sight brought a smile to Dutch’s lips as he gave Empress a gentle push of the heels to fall into step with Hosea. The man’s hat was inclined so low over his eyes that the only visible part of his face was the reddened tip of his nose, peeking above the tight barrier of his scarf.

Dutch inhaled sharply as he tried to get the clattering of his jaw under control. “ _Sonuvabitch_ , I _hate_ that wind. I wouldn’t mind Arizona.”

Hosea didn’t reply. His head was bowed.

“Hey, y—you alright here, old girl?”

Still, Hosea gave no answer. Dutch had to reach for his shoulder with his left hand for him to finally stuttered: “... ’lmost th—there.”

Hosea still wasn’t meeting his gaze, his eyes concealed by the brim of his hat, fixed on what Dutch hoped to be their trail ahead and not drifting into nothingness under the strain of his struggle against the dropping temperature. That was when a hoarse cough ripped from his throat, then another, and another, each outburst shaking his shoulders with cold-fed tremors and bending his frame further on the saddle. The fit came and passed quickly, but the rattle that had escaped Hosea’s lungs had carried harsh echoes of exhaustion and pain. Dutch’s hand squeezed Hosea’s shoulder in a reflex, the contact having become familiar between them with the naturalness of a calm stream running down the valley.

“Hold on there,” he said gently, letting his hand rest there for another couple of seconds until Hosea finally spared him a glance. The tension in his features was evident, but his smirk managed to reach the corners of his eyes now shining with that mischievous spark Dutch had seen twinkle too many times to count. Without a word, he nodded in the direction of their snow-covered path, prompting Dutch to look up.

His eyes widened as he recognized the headland they’d ridden down on that too distant sunny morning.

“Thank God, _at last!_ ” he exclaimed, not caring about the way his teeth pleaded him to snap his mouth shut to shield them against the freezing wind as he took in the blissful sight of the miserable cabin that had sheltered them two nights ago—and had come with a small stock of firewood left at their disposal too. The previous masters of the house had likely deserted the place in a hurry following some bad turn of fortune a long time ago, as suggested by the accumulated dust and snow and two abandoned photographs—both showing a man and a woman beaming with all the untarnished hopes of inexperienced settlers.

In those inhospitable mountains, the existence of the small uninhabited shack was nothing short of a miracle, and he and Hosea hadn’t thought about it twice before settling inside. They’d escaped the law without much of an incident save for Hosea’s ‘cold’, but that detour through the inhospitable North had been their best option to ensure that no form of authority whatsoever would hinder their progress toward Ohio after that rather noticeable but very successful estate robbery back in Indiana. They’d barely had time to redistribute the money to local indebted farmers before scampering away, a US marshall and his little posse hot on their tails. They’d chased them bravely for quite a while, Dutch had to give them that, but the weather of Minnesota had nothing that could entice their meddling with what had become the local sheriff’s responsibility as soon as they’d crossed the state border.

“Racing you, old girl?” he called out, kicking Empress into a gallop without waiting for an answer, regaining both his smile and strength at the mere thought of the hearth waiting for them inside the small house.

It was hard to be certain whether Hosea had remained silent or replied to his enthusiastic challenge, for the wind was still lashing at their ears, but there was no mistaking the muffled thump of Diamond Ace’s quickening behind him.

Empress’s graceful legs rose puffs of snow and breached through its untouched purity with heartwarming zeal as she tapped into her rider’s fervor, determined to reap the promise of a long night of rest with a final touch of panache.

He encouraged the mare with a loud clap on her jet-black neck as she rushed to close the three hundred yards that separated them from the cabin that barely held itself together on the promontory. Dutch exposed his right cheek to the wind as he turned to check on Hosea’s progress and grinned at the soothing sight of his partner seemingly rising to the contest, although the race had been over before it had started. Diamond Ace had the experience, but Empress still had the young, bursting fire of her impetuousness. There was also the non-negligible fact that Dutch had had no intention of making it a fair fight this time. A trivial detail as he drank the vision of the house growing nearer and nearer, its dark outline cutting through the white fabric of winter.

When he finally reached the cabin, he wasted no time to savor his stolen victory and headed right to the small horse shed siding the rear wall of the cabin to hitch and unsaddle Empress. They’d need to pour some warm water in the trough once they got a fire started, but in the meantime, she could happily feast on the two oatcakes Dutch immediately presented to her; he knew she’d be more than delighted later to engulf the contents of the flake bucket they’d left in the shed on the day they’d found the place.

“That’s my lady,” he praised her, stroking her from forehead to nose as her lips enthusiastically brushed his palm to swallow the long-desired reward.

He kept petting her until no crumb was left in his hand, expecting the tromping of a tired mustang to break the quiet that had descended upon them in the modest protection offered by the small outbuilding. Empress’s tongue was now lapping at his fingers, generously sliming the leather of his glove with no concern for its already degrading state. He gave her muzzle a gentle shove, which earned him a half-hearted offended snort. It was when her neighing ceased that he realized he could perceive no sign or sound from Diamond Ace.

“Hosea?” he called, a frown settling on his brow as he leaned toward the exterior of the shed.

The shrill of the unrepentant wind was the only response he obtained, and the only sight his eyes could grasp at was a world covered in white.

The tracks left by Empress were visible, but those of the old mustang remained absent. A spark of confusion lit in his mind.

“Hosea, you there?”

Once again, the wind was his sole answer.

Not bothering to hide his groan, he tightened the belt of his coat around his waist and tucked his arms around his chest, bracing his already cold-flooded bones for another confrontation against the blasted gale that put all the harsh winters he’d experienced to shame, and stepped outside the shed, going back up the tracks left by Empress. His confusion threatened to flare into worry as it dripped into the pit of his stomach when he failed to spot a second trail matching his after he’d walked his way around the cabin.

The flare got squelched, however, when he eventually caught sight of the snow trenches left by Diamond Ace’s. The hoofprints came from the side of the slope Dutch had climbed so eagerly and drew a parallel line to Empress’s tracks for a few yards before they abruptly took a hairpin curve westward in the direction of the edge of the headland. He was about to shout out Hosea’s name again when his eyes fell on the end of the trail. The sight locked his voice in his throat.

There Hosea stood on the rim of the promontory, alone with Diamond Ace, looking down on the vast wilderness, the reins of his stallion caught in the slack grip of his right hand, his feet planted in the snow under an unbowed spine that opened his chest to the world. It was as though the cold had lost all ascendency over his body. With the dark grey of his winter coat tracing his silhouette almost too clearly against the blinding whiteness of the snow and sky, Hosea seemed to be drawing all the lights of winter toward him in an irresistible pull.

Another frozen gust hit Dutch right in the face and neck, making him flinch back, snatching the vision away from him as he screwed his eyes shut. A deep growl of ache and frustration escaped his body. His hand instinctively gripped his scarf to press it closer to his skin.

His entire frame shook with the urge to call Hosea again, tell him to drag his ass inside before they both froze to death while the sun descended upon the silver line of the horizon. But that quiet intuition that bound itself to his knowledge of Hosea drove him to trudge closer to the man instead, his feet projecting a pound of snow each time they laboriously rose and fell through the snow. He was only a few feet behind him when his left foot sank deeper than he expected, causing him to stumble forward before he closed the remaining distance between them.

“Goddammit,” he grumbled, stopping right behind Hosea to fumble with his coat, looking down as he sank his hands into its holed pockets, “you trying to die here, Hosea? C’mon, let’s get ins—“

“Dutch, look at that.”

More than his words, it was the awe laced in Hosea’s voice that got Dutch to stop. His eyes fixed themselves on Hosea, studying his nape and shoulders, finally perceiving the slight tremors that were still rippling through his friend’s body despite the striking change in his countenance.

“Hosea, you’re freezin’,” he protested, yet still took another step toward the edge.

“Yeah, I know, just shut up and _look_.”

And so Dutch did.

He peered into the valley that was as clear as it must have been during a summer day. There, crossing a meager frozen stream that curved through the snow-covered prairie, carving its way through the white blanket like an arrow that could have been carved in the rock of mountains, was a herd of at least fifty bison. Even the distance couldn’t diminish the majesty of the beasts, their powerful backs and noble heads pushing forward with a resilience no man could ever hope to match. A dozen calves were clumping along with the adults. Their smaller gangly shapes were barely able to rise above the thick of the snow so that most of them had to tread within the wide trenches dug by their watchful guardians. One of the young near the head of the group, more adventurous than his brethren, tried to nudge his own path through virgin snow with courage—and admirable foolishness. Dutch watched as the calf stubbornly ignored his mother’s calls and buttheaded his way forward for a few more feet before finally giving up and yielding to the promise of comfort offered by his mother’s warmth and protection, retreating into this wild, noble flock that followed no star but its own. The soft purple hues of a sun half consumed by a sea of trees and hills sawing the horizon to the edge of the Earth poured over the glen, painting nature’s white canvas with subtle pastel shades. The wind itself seemed to be tinged with the colors of dusk if one looked hard enough. This day might be the coldest in history but in that one moment appropriately frozen in time, Dutch couldn’t have cared less. Some prizes were simply worth the pain.

“Quite the spectacle, huh?”

Hosea was smiling. Dutch could hear it in the way his voice somehow sounded lighter even at a lower octave, the corners of his lips stretching the vowels into notes that carried either reverence or joy. When Dutch managed to drag his eyes away from a vision he suspected he would never see again to take a peek at Hosea, he knew with utter certainty it was both. His hazel eyes were shining their own glow rather than reflecting the silver light of the sky. His smile had grown too wide for the barrier of his scarf, pushing up his reddened cheekbones until thin crow’s feet crinkled the corners of his eyelids. His fingers, which had clutched the fabric of his scarf so hard when they’d been stuck on the saddle, had relaxed in the confines of his gloves. His skin bore all the marks of a person exposed to unbearable freezing temperatures for too long already, and yet everything in his expression and demeanor radiated with the heat of a hundred summer suns.

“Quite the spectacle,” Dutch agreed in a sigh, his eyes eventually sliding back toward the valley.

It was as though the wind had decided to grant them the mercy of brushing the grey clouds away from the valley by sending them to chase after some other poor souls so that theirs could be the witnesses of an impossible sunset nestled in the heart of a blizzard. Down the glen, the bison kept pushing forward thanks to their ancestral force, a procession marching to the West like a tribute to the dying sun.

“Truly a spectacle,” he repeated in a murmur, feeling his own smile break the ice of his muscles. “I never saw a bison before,” he added, louder.

He felt Hosea shift toward him. “Never?”

He shook his head no. “Saw a group of trappers bring a carcass into town once. I must have been eleven or twelve. Even in death, it looked… noble.”

“I ain’t too sure there’s a lot of nobility in death.”

“There ain’t,” he chuckled. “But in wild beasts? There’s something that don’t care about death.”

The wind rose once more, clawing at their calves and backs as if meant to petrify then on the spot. Both of them instantly jerked like frightened fawns as their shoulders stooped forward in an impossible attempt to fight off the new frozen wave that crashed against them. The gust flowed down the hills, running through the trees and rocks to the very bottom of the glen. The herd stood unshaken.

“Y—you should get inside, Dutch,” Hosea said with chattering teeth.

Dutch’s snort turned into a cough. “ _You_ should get inside. I wasn’t the one who was sick with winter fever last week,” he retorted, glancing at Hosea with a raised eyebrow that reached his hat.

“It was no winter fever, you’re being dramatic. As usual.”

The roll of his eyes didn’t escape Dutch.

“Says the man standing alone in the snow with lips so purple he’d make a working girl jealous.”

“Ain’t you standing here with me too?”

“ _Touché_.”

The chuckle was shared this time, Hosea’s laugh close to that wheeze that often rendered his mirth contagious whenever he chose to let it out, which occurred more often than what he cared to admit.

Silence fell, and the wind picked up, bent on filling the void with its strident voice.

“Besides,” Hosea drawled after long seconds, letting go of Diamond Ace with a pat, prompting the ever-observant mustang and his good memory to retreat to their shelter, “I haven’t seen that many bison since I was a boy in the mountains. I’d like to watch them a bit longer. You go get yourself warm.”

Dutch looked at him, his tongue already lifted in his mouth to raise an objection. If Hell was frozen, then surely they were ass deep in it, and whether or not it had been ‘no winter fever’, Hosea should be the first to get his out of it. But Dutch’s eyes drifted back to the view, guided by an invisible pull that surpassed even Hosea’s heedfulness in conditions that should have strengthened it… back to that unique scenery that could never be conjured up in Hell and would only be captured by their eyes and no one else’s. Something that, like this silence that had once more fallen between them, was _theirs._

In that selfish, cold and lonely world, what kind of fraud would dare ask for more?

As if to cement the decision Dutch’s wandering mind had just made, Hosea stifled a cough.

“I think I’ll stay,” Dutch said, tightening his scarf like a noose with an air of finality verging on buoyancy. His hands then moved in concert, proceeding to untie the belt of his coat and undo its buttons. “Can’t deny the view, after all.”

Hosea’s eyes nearly bulged out their sockets when he realized what he was doing. “ _Are you mad?_ ”

“Always have been, my friend.” he conceded, pushing the flaps of his coat open. His stomach instantly contracted on itself due to the sudden exposure to the chilling air, his vest and shirt now its sole protections. He let out a shivery growl as he took a step back and opened his arms under Hosea’s worried scrutiny. “But right now, I’m gonna apply one of those survival recommendations of yours, _Mountain Boy_.” He laid both hands on Hosea’s shoulders. “If I may?”

Hosea quickly glanced down at his hands, then back at him, quizzical eyebrows still high on his forehead. When he nodded, Dutch crashed his body against his back, knocking a _hmph!_ from Hosea’s lungs.

“Alright…,” he gasped, his arms moving away from his chest under the force of the collision.

“I did listen to you when you talked about the exchange of body heat in case of extreme cold,” Dutch crowed, clasping his arms around Hosea and rubbing them across his stomach, “in case you been underestimatin’ me.”

“I… never underestimated you after the night we met,” Hosea said, his tone lower as his disrupted breathing hissed through his teeth.

His back tensed against Dutch’s quivering chest. While Dutch usually took pride in being able to read Hosea’s body language, he felt heat flash all the way up to his neck as he found himself uncertain as to the cause of Hosea’s stiffness. The memory of the first time Dutch had hugged the man, carried on the wings of their success with that grand scheme they’d pulled on that rich landowner back in Illinois, slithered through his shield of confidence; Hosea had been as rigid as a tree trunk then, his face pinched with an indecipherable expression.

“Is that—is that okay?” he fumbled, and he thanked the harsh winter for all the excuses it provided as to the new stutter in his voice.

“You’ve memorized my advice well,” Hosea breathed out.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant. It _is_ okay.”

With that greedy wind so eager to devour all sounds, perhaps Dutch only imagined that light note in Hosea’s voice, the one that painted so many of his smiles. And perhaps he only fantasized about the sun slowing down its course toward the edge of the world. What was indisputable, however, was Hosea’s answer and the way the knots in his spine untied themselves one by one against Dutch’s chest, the tension in his shoulders unwinding carefully while his breathing and persisting shivers aligned with his.

The clear perception of Hosea’s body against his brought on a warmth that seemed to be more than mere body heat but proved to be just as welcome when Dutch hadn’t even been aware of its existence. Suddenly as desperate to absorb as to offer it, Dutch arms closed tighter around Hosea, his fingers digging into the fabric of his clothing as if he could shelter his entire frame inside the tent of his coat.

“Better?” Dutch inquired after a consequent beat.

For a moment, winter was all the answer he obtained, until he heard and felt a sigh leave Hosea’s lungs. That subtle shift seemed to press Hosea’s back even closer to his chest.

“Better,” he exhaled, his voice quieter than they were both accustomed to.

Intimacy found a whole myriad of meanings when it came to being around Hosea. Dutch learned to read and translate each of those senses as days coursed in the river of time. This was but a new one to write in their book.

A part of himself thought his confused younger self might have been shocked by the unquestioned naturalness of it all. Shocked and _intrigued_.

Dutch cleared his throat and dared prop his head on top of Hosea’s left shoulder, allowing himself to drink the last drops of this vision that would die with the sunlight in less than a couple of minutes. The dimming light was already morphing into the darkness of a cold twilight, and still, the bison marched on. The curtain nature was carefully drawing onto herself while preserving her majesty pushed old words up to the surface of his mind.

“‘So doth the greater glory dim the less: a substitute shines brightly as a king… Until a king be by.’”

“Oh, hello, William. Fancy seeing you here, old chap.”

A chest-deep chuckle went past Dutch’s lips, and he could feel the vibrations of Hosea’s self-satisfied snicker.

“I was just thinkin’. These animals down here… They’re kings in the wilderness. I don’t reckon God ever appointed any man as king or pope or whatever title they wanna pick for themselves. But even if he did… They’re the substitutes and these bison are the true, first appointed lords.”

Hosea laughed again, but it was soft rather than sharp. Thoughtful rather than biting. “The way you say those words.”

“You mean the way I recite Shakespeare or the way I append his words to this land he didn’t even know?”

“Both, I guess. We’ll get you on a stage someday yet, Mister van der Linde.”

“ _Ah!_ But see… ‘ _All the world’s a stage_.’”

“ _Dear God_ , there’s no end to it,” Hosea barked, slapping Dutch’s arm in reprimand.

“You were the one that gave me _The Merchant of Venice_ ,” Dutch reminded him in a low voice.

“Right. ‘The tempter or the tempted, who sins most?’”

Dutch fell quiet, the cogs of his memory triggered into spinning by the implicit challenge.

“ _As You Like It_ , right?” he ventured.

“It’s _Measure for Measure_ , you uncultured swine. Why do I even ride with you?”

Dutch hummed quietly, dropping the banter in favor of focusing on the horizon, staring at the last fragment of the sun whose light was now almost completely drowned in the mountains.

“Because riding alone ain’t much fun, ain’t it? And some wonders ain’t meant for the lonely man.”

Hosea’s hand rested against Dutch’s arm instead of falling to his side or rising to hold his flapping collar. Dutch was more acutely aware of the touch than of his own tremors.

“Maybe you’re right,” Hosea finally replied after a pause. The white puff of his breath brushed back against his cheek and clouded Dutch’s vision for a second.

Silence sealed their lips, reaping the crops of their conversation as they let the surreal landscape plant its seeds in their minds. Purple turned into blue and grey, the crowns of the trees took the guise of mountain peaks once adorned with the cloak of shadows, and the first bison reached the edge of the faraway forest on the other side of the glen.

The curtain fell.

Dutch untucked his chin from Hosea’s shoulder just as Hosea partially turned his head to look right back at him. Dutch repressed a cough and looked down.

“How about we get inside and light ourselves a fire now?” Hosea asked, his pitch rising ever so slightly. “Before we stupidly kill ourselves by freezin’ to death?”

“Right there with you,” Dutch nodded, untangling his arms in a quick, awkward movement. The effect was immediate. Cold air punched his stomach like a frozen fist.

He cleared his throat a bit too loud into the deep of his scarf, his eyes suddenly boring holes into the tips of his boots. When he looked up again, Hosea was smiling at him with this teasing that would gently poke his amour-propre rather than cut it. It was the sort of humor that carried an invitation instead of hoisting barricades. The apathetic pessimism that hat tainted Hosea’s smirks, snickers and other bouts of wit during the first months Dutch had come to know the man appeared to come less easily to him, leaving in its stead an open blank space where the spark he had kept so carefully hidden could finally be kindled into something _brighter_.

Some people might have called it ‘change’. As far as Dutch was concerned, it wasn’t about changing, but about _becoming._ He’d seen the spark the first night he’d looked into Hosea’s eyes.

“Now don’ go choke on that, cowboy,” Hosea chirped with what Dutch figured to be an exaggerated mountain man accent. “C’mon. Before you catch a cold.”

Dutch’s tongue clicked with a mocking ‘ _tsk’_. “Or winter fever.”

“It was a bad _cold_ ,” Hosea countered, stepping past him and toward the house, slapping Dutch’s shoulder with the back of his hand for good measure.

“Say your sore tubes, old girl,” Dutch called back, feet still riveted where he stood.

“You’re exhausting.”

“You love me, though.”

Dutch’s hair stood on the nape of his neck when his own ears registered the rising edge in his intonation as he pronounced the last word. He didn’t recall a time when one of his assertions had ever sounded like a question.

Hosea looked at him past his shoulder without altering his pace. His index finger clawed at his scarf to lower it under his chin, showing him a grin whose playfulness only heightened its candor.

“Not if you stay and die on that ledge, I don’t.”

Dutch’s ineloquent snort was swallowed by the implacable wind, and he was thankful for it. His feet required little convincing to follow Hosea toward that small cabin that looked so negligible and inconsequential in this big, ever-expanding world of Man and Nature and yet granted them sanctuary like the cathedrals and temples of old.

“What d’you reckon most people would think?” Hosea had asked him later that night not too long before they fell asleep, with a fire crackling inside the hearth, their horses sheltered, fed and hydrated, their bedrolls spread opposite the fireplace, lying only a foot from each other, and half a whiskey bottle already downed into their stomachs to soothe their shivers. “Two grown men, waiting to be turned into icicles in some godforsaken Minnesota backwoods because they got too zealous fleeing a marshall or two?”

Hosea’s tone had been casual, but the way he’d bored his eyes into Dutch’s had been anything but.

Dutch had then looked at their twin shadows dancing across the dusty rotten floor as the wind had kept thrashing the rocking wooden door.

“I reckon,” he’d said after a long while, staring into the hazel pool of Hosea’s eyes, “most people wouldn’t have got the view.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I am not above quoting Shakespeare, because who can claim Dutch van der Linde wouldn't have found it cool to quote the Bard when he was younger?
> 
> ‘So doth the greater glory dim the less: a substitute shines brightly as a king… Until a king be by.’ is from _The Merchant of Venice_ (Act 5, Sc.1)  
> 'All the world's a stage." is from _As You Like It_ (Act 2, Sc.7)  
> 'The tempter or the tempted, who sins most?' is from _Measure for Measure_ (Act 2, Sc.2)
> 
> As a bonus to this chapter: my personal headcanon is that Dutch would be all about the tragedies (because of course) while Hosea would prefer the comedies, but they'd have a tremendous time discussing the historical plays together.
> 
> Also, I cannot resist the idea of Dutch starting to call Hosea “Old Girl” in their early years while they were both still young. It’s simply too endearing (and such a Dutch thing).
> 
> Thank you for reading <3


	3. The First Time They Kissed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I am not dead. Never was! Simply had to resume work after the summer break, and, as you can imagine, that means my writing sessions are not quite as efficient as they were when I wrote "Blessed..." (and that's without counting the usual writer's block).  
> But this fic is still being written, so you can stand reassured. I initially had the project of publishing this chapter ONLY after I had completed Chapter 3, and said Chapter 3 is not even finished!! (it's... a long one). But I decided that the time was right to publish that one anyway.
> 
> Because them cowboys deserve the fluff.
> 
> If I had to deliver warnings for this chapter, I would probably mention: **extended contextual lore** that the author hadn't planned to make that long + **very very very fluffy cowboys** (you read the chapter's title). I did love writing that fluff. They be fluffy.
> 
> I would also like to dedicate this chapter to my dear friend [platonicharmonics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/platonicharmonics/pseuds/platonicharmonics) who absolutely deserves the world and without whom this fic would probably have remained a fantasy locked in the attic of my brain. His constant support and talent have been the fuel to my inspiration <3

Dutch heard him before he saw him, and the first thought that came to his mind, way before the natural concern that should arise in any human being after landing headfirst into the stony bed of a shallow stream, was an unadorned ‘ _thank God’_.

Diamond Ace’s hooves were hammering the grassed ground with such force that every homesteader in a five-mile radius probably heard his gallop. Or perhaps it was just Dutch’s ringing ears amplifying every sound until they banged against the very walls of his skull. This tended to happen when a stagecoach crashed into a riverbank with you occupying its driver seat.

He could feel his blood pulse in his temple, which could be a telling sign of a few worrying implications as far as he was concerned.

But he was alive, and the core simplicity of the fact never failed to draw a grin on his face. He made sure that the sight didn’t escape Hosea’s eagle eye when the man finally emerged from the grove like a bullet from the barrel of a gun.

His dizziness was still tilting and blurring the edges of his vision, like the bottom of a bottle, but it wasn’t hard to guess the tension in Hosea’s locked jaw or even the widening of his eyes at the sorry spectacle of the object of their covetousness lying unceremoniously on its flank on the humid soil, its axletrees fractured and half its wheels splintered into pieces. When Dutch’s clarity returned as he looked a bit further, he was able to make out the broken carcass of one of the front wheels that one of the dead prize idiots who had decided to ruin their perfectly good plan had unwisely crashed against a boulder, before driving the panicked horses toward the nearest stream. After careful consideration, perhaps the sorry state he and the vehicle were in was more than acceptable given the less than smooth unfolding of events.

Unexpected victories were still victories.

Diamond Ace skidded to a stop in a cloud of dust right before earth met water, his rider pushing his feet out of the stirrups and leaping off the saddle before the mustang had fully settled into a halt.

“ _Are you okay?_ ”

Hosea’s hand was on his shoulder before he could blink, and the new bout of dizziness prompted by his partner’s swift movements only made his grin grow wider, like a sunflower soaking up sunlight.

He stretched out his wet and soiled arms with as much grandness he could muster before he panted his reply, “Like a duck to water.”

He could neither repress a wince nor a groan when a flash of pain suddenly pierced through his side like an arrow. If Hosea had rolled his eyes at his quip, he’d missed it.

“More like a pig in shit,” Hosea said with a frown, although the warmth of relief was only too evident in the hazel of his eyes. His right hand hovered over Dutch’s stomach with the clear intent to check his injuries, and albeit Dutch wouldn’t dare insult the man’s intelligence by pretending he had none, he brushed his concern aside with a wave.

“It’s not too bad,” he said, his voice quieter.

“Given the state of the coach, I would appreciate if you’d let me be the judge of that,” Hosea replied, the volume of his voice matching his as he peered at him intently under the brim of his hat and slowly brought his hand right under his chin.

A muffled squeal behind them snapped Hosea’s attention away from him. His left hand, still on Dutch’s shoulder, squeezed with perfectly contained strength as his right flew to his holster, whipping back into the air in less than a second, clasped around his Cattleman.

“It’s alright,” Dutch said with a less flamboyant smile as he gently pushed down Hosea’s revolver. “Took care of the ‘new’ driver and his friend.”

Without waiting for Hosea’s gun to be holstered back, Dutch braced his ribs and sauntered toward the wreckage, then propped his left foot against one of the thoroughbraces of the coach as he bent over to open the door that was now facing the sky. More panicked exclamations and confused grunts erupted from inside the cabin as he looked down at its two frightened and disheveled passengers.

“My lady. My good sir. Might I offer you a hand to help you out of your current misfortune?” he beamed, extending his hand toward the understandably nervous woman who’d found herself flung against the upturned ceiling of the coach, arms and legs spread out like those of a startled starfish, while her companion wriggled his legs to find a viable equilibrium after being thrown onto his back against the opposite door of the carriage.

The face of the woman—who couldn’t have been older than twenty years old—went from pale to flushed under her crumpled burgundy city hat, no doubt realizing that she’d survived all the life-threatening excitement of a race against teeth-bared bandits only to be found in what some would have called an unladylike position by a stranger who might have held no better intentions than their previous attackers.

“You… they…” she stammered, her blue eyes wide like teacup saucers. She swallowed and frowned as she seemed to brace the muscles of her arm in case the need to defend herself arose. “Are you… with the local sheriff?”

He couldn’t repress a deep chuckle at the absurd irony of her question, which didn’t quite help assuage whatever fears she was still harboring, and quite rationally so. Behind her, the man—at least thirty years her elder—didn’t cower as much as he remained paralyzed with the eyes of a fearful deer.

Leaning back ever so slightly to liberate as much space as he could within the frame of the door, Dutch made sure his voice didn’t upset her further.

“I am not, Miss,” he spoke in a softer tone. “Just a concerned citizen. Are you alright?”

“I—I banged my head pretty hard, I think, but no, I…” She wet her lips as she took a quick look at the quivering man behind her. “We’re okay, sir. Are—are these men…”

“I promise you that these men won’t hurt you no more, or anyone else for that matter,” he replied in the same gentle voice. “You’re safe. Me and my friend mean you no harm. Let me help you out of here.”

The man behind her, all bundled up in his tight grey city suit, suddenly seemed to register their situation. He tried to restore what Dutch assumed to be his offended masculine pride, judging by the way he stared at the lady shielding his body as if she was as unexpected and concerning a sight as Dutch was. His attempt, which led to some more wriggling, only made him look like a fish out of water.

“Mathilda, please, allow me to—”

His chivalrous and vain endeavor to extricate himself to help the lady out himself could only go as far as falling into a graceless squat, with his knees framing the edge of the bench seat, while the lady, Mathilda, spared him only the barest of glances before turning back to Dutch. Her frown returned to her face, except her features exhibited that curious determination that sometimes befell people left with no other option than that presented to them. Clutching the frame of the door with her right hand, she slowly raised her left to accept Dutch’s assistance with a stronger grip than her prudent countenance would suggest. Taking care of not pulling too hard, Dutch helped her haul herself up, following her movements with his other hand in case she tripped while climbing down the thoroughbrace.

“Thank you,” she breathed out when her feet landed on the ground, flush returning to her cheeks as she dusted the front of her dress with the kind of self-consciousness that implied she was more of a city-dweller than an inhabitant of the local farmer town.

“My pleasure,” he said, politely bowing his head. “Now, Mister?” he asked, turning back and offering his hand to the man whom he would have so easily robbed on a more auspicious day.

The man’s face was almost as flushed as his companion’s, however, his expression and the way his thick graying mustache twitched above his lips betrayed more than simple surprise and caution.

“I can—do it myself,” he hissed, refusing Dutch’s hand to resume his awkward squirming for ten painfully embarrassing seconds. “ _Thank you,_ ” he added, grinding his teeth, in a tone Dutch knew quite well. It was the kind of ‘thank you’s’ that conveyed insult in the guise of civility, the kind rich folks living in their ivory towers would throw at domestics for accomplishing their work too slowly or for overstaying their welcome in the salon or dining room.

Dutch’s lips stretched into a cutting smile as he made a point of slowly folding his fingers back. “Don’t mention it, _friend_.”

Not bothering to check if the man was succeeding in extracting himself from the smashed cabin, Dutch spun on one heel before stepping down the wreckage, arching an eyebrow in Hosea’s direction. The man responded with a shake of his head that almost had him snicker. Hosea’s body language had a unique way of conveying quips and jibes almost as explicitly as his sharp tongue could.

Hosea then prompted Diamond Ace toward one of the two abandoned horses whose riders Dutch had disposed of during their unexpected death race and shoot-out in pursuit of the same loot. One of the mounts—a bay stallion—had set his attention to the fresh grass, not bothered in the slightest by the sprawled shape of his master’s corpse just a couple of yards away.

When Dutch turned back to the two former passengers of the stagecoach, Mathilda’s eyes darted between him and said corpse. The body of the second feller, who had killed their driver to take his place only to have one of Dutch’s bullets lodged into his skull for his trouble, laid only ten feet from the wreckage behind her.

She swallowed once but her eyes settled on him and didn’t waver when she said, “You… You killed those men.”

Despite the anxiety that was still coursing through her, her voice steadied in an assertion rather than a question. The stern note in her tone didn’t translate judgment as much as it did a cautious assessment of the armed man standing before her.

He slowly nodded. “Indeed. Before they killed me. And most certainly you, at the same time. But I must confess I had other plans for today.”

She kept her eyes trained on him for a few seconds before granting him a slow nod in turn. “I must thank you, sir… For your responsiveness,” she added pointedly but with no enmity. “You most certainly saved both our lives.”

Dutch’s eyes caught sight of her companion—now halfway out of the vehicle—throwing nervous glances at the chest at the back of the car. Whether he’d ever care about giving his thanks for getting rescued, he looked more interested in giving thanks to whatever force might have spared him the loss of the chest’s contents.

“You’re heading toward Copper Springs, I believe, Miss…?” Dutch asked, eyes sliding back to Mathilda just as Hosea was returning while guiding the bay horse by the reins.

“Kilgore. Mathilda Kilgore. This is my uncle, Mr. Dumat,” she added, gesturing toward the man as he finally climbed out of the ruined vehicle. “And yes, we are, actually, or rather we were until those brutes killed the poor driver and tried to rob us,” she said with rising fierceness. “How did you know?”

“Simple matter of deduction. I happen to know these roads a bit, as well as its dangers, and I hope you will pardon my bluntness, but you and Mr. Dumat look like two people heading toward a city rather than a little farm town like Kepler. Would you and your uncle here need someone to help you ride to your destination, Miss Kilgore?”

“Well, that is extremely generous of you, but—”

Dumat suddenly stepped between the two of them, although Dutch had made no movement toward the lady. “Sir, I thank you profusely for your… _welcome assistance_ ,” he chimed in with narrowed eyes, “but I would inform you that I, and my niece for that matter, are perfectly able to head to Copper Springs by our own means.”

“ _Uncle Tacitus_.”

Dumat’s eyes widened slightly at his niece’s remonstrance, which he obviously hadn’t expected.

This gave Dutch the time to turn once again to Hosea, now standing by the fallen coach, and given how his arched eyebrows matched his and the way his lips thinned in repressed laughter, it was clear he found this rare first name as appropriately pompous as Dutch did.

The man hadn’t noticed their silent yet mocking exchange, too busy that he was gazing at his niece with what could pass as softness if his jaw wasn’t taut with obvious irritation. He looked back to Dutch as he tried to readjust his disheveled collar. “As I said, my good and delicate niece and I are, of course, forever in your debt for your selfless act of bravery.” His tone was that of a schoolboy reciting his memorized lesson like one would absently empty a bucket of its contents, without showing even the barest trace of earnestness in his task. “I don’t know what brought you two in these parts, but I will inform you that, even if our clothes don’t demonstrate any inclination toward country life, we have been both fully educated in the matter of horseback riding. My niece is expected to meet and receive the proposal of the youngest son of my business partner in Copper Springs, and I’m sure you will agree her fiancé wouldn’t appreciate—”

“Uncle, _please._ ” Mathilda interrupted him with a poker face that could have made some of the players Dutch had known in his relatively young career pale with envy. More striking, however—especially given her young age and the nature of her situation—was the authority pouring from her words and composure, which seemed only to swell with each display of her uncle’s self-importance. “Those two men saved our lives. I believe they do _not_ deserve to be treated so callously. Whatever the reasons for their presence here, they should be praised for their courage and altruism. We should be grateful for the circumstances that put them on our path, no matter their nature.”

Those words could have been uttered by any well-intentioned young woman carrying a ship-heavy load of naïveté in her heart. However, from the way her blue eyes held Dutch’s after throwing the sharpest of glances at the bandana tied around his neck, glinting with that glow found in people able to see farther than the tip of their noses, he realized that, for all her smart manners, naive she was _not_.

It also appeared that where her uncle’s sharpness of mind yielded to outright disdain, hers hardly prompted any judgment or condemnation. Maybe she was afraid and hoped that not naming the potential true nature of her saviors would prevent it from being brought to light. Or maybe she found a sort of wild appeal to being rescued by a pair of outlaws that may have targetted them and been unlucky enough to be pipped at the post by a bigger, nastier bunch of bandits just as interested in murdering as they were in stealing the contents of the coach’s rear box.

Dutch slowly bowed his head, acknowledging her muted indulgence and letting her ponder the truth hidden behind his discreet smile as a quid-pro-quo.

“We couldn’t just stand by and watch,” he said. “I do wish we’d gotten here _sooner_ , though.”

He heard Hosea’s breath hitch in a contained exasperated sigh behind him, smothered by the sound of his and the horse’s approaching steps on the shingle bank. Dutch indulged him by abstaining from winking at Mathilda and rotated on his heels to head for the rear of the stagecoach. However, he couldn’t resist giving Hosea’s shoulder a playful pat on his way but didn’t wait to see his reaction. He knew for a fact that the man, with his expression partially hidden in the shade of his hat, was either shaking his head or smirking at him. Perhaps both.

Pushing down the wave of pain that surged in his ribs as he nearly tripped on a stone, he made his way toward the large strongbox which had miraculously survived the crash, albeit its lid was seriously bashed in, only holding close thanks to the lock. Given the state of the latter, it was clear that the sole security it offered now was to keep the contents of the box from spilling out. It wouldn’t even require a bullet to break.

After resting his hands against his hips as he inspected the object that had been coveted by so many degenerate souls on that bright spring day, he took a deep breath to prepare his sore muscles for another throbbing pull, then crouched and wrapped his arms around the container, grinding his teeth against the pain that only intensified in his flank as he stood up. Lucky for him, the riches inside, while heavy once their value was written inside anyone’s books, were light in weight. The box, unfortunately, was not too far from being as big as one of those recent, smaller travel trunks he’d seen aboard trains, and almost as weighty too.

He’d only taken a few steps back to the little group when Hosea, having left the bay stallion’s reins in Dumat’s supposedly capable hands, moved to meet him, not even asking before he slid his left hand into one of the side handles and gave it a yank to get Dutch to lower the box so they could share the burden.

“You really wanna make my work more difficult when I patch you up tonight, don’t you?” Hosea asked, his voice low and more resigned than it was chastising.

“I guess I don’t want you to get bored after such an uneventful, disappointing day,” he chuckled, although the laugh soon morphed into a grunt.

“I wouldn’t say I’m bored. You’re feeling like the true cowboy gentleman today, ain’t ya?”

“I learned from the best.”

“Flatterer,” Hosea deadpanned, although his amused smile was hardly concealed anymore. “Also, stop trying to pull most of the weight, you’ll only get sorer tonight. We know you got muscles.”

Dutch couldn’t help another pained chortle. He half-suspected Hosea to have provoked that one on purpose to carry his point across.

They had almost made it back to their two former targets when Dumat’s voice—a nasal and petulant thing—called out to them.

“What are you doing with this? That box is our property!”

“My, my,” Hosea whistled as they set the strongbox down at the Dumat’s feet. “And here was I thinking that city folks had the best manners, but it seems our Lord makes mistakes in all his kingdoms. Are you implying that we are trying to rob you, Mr. Dumat?”

Dumat’s face reddened, and Dutch suspected that it had as much to do with being challenged on his insinuations as with the challenge being raised by someone he hardly considered of higher standing than the cockroach he’d stepped on that morning.

“Because if that is what you’re implying, I must say I am confused,” Hosea went on, keeping his tone casual like he would at the counter of a general store. “My good friend Mr. O’Malley here risked his life and reaped some bruises for his troubles to save you and your niece when he could have simply left you to your fate and dealt with those wretched souls lying over there once their mischief had been accomplished. Knowing that this didn’t happen, what kind of thieves does that make us?”

Hosea had delivered his little tirade with that easy smile of his, the one that invited the trust of naive, stupid, or arrogant beings before making them realize they may have stepped onto a bear trap. There was grace in the way he could be so charming and so ruthless in the span of one single breath.

Dumat’s skin went from angry red to a sickly pale as his mind eventually perceived the cutting edge of Hosea’s rictus and words through the veil of his amiable attitude.

“Very incompetent thieves, I’d say,” Mathilda Kilgore calmly intervened, whatever anxiety she had felt prior now fully under control behind her analytical yet cordial gaze. The ghost of a smile might even have pulled at the corners of her lips.

Hosea let out a burst of warm and genuine laughter. “Indeed, Miss Kilgore! I expect the West would have been tamed long ago if outlaws operated this way.”

This earned him a grin from her. “What a wonderful world that would be,” she playfully added, clearly entertained. She then turned to her uncle to lay a hand on his shoulder. “Please, Uncle Tacitus. Be nice to our rescuers. If they’d wanted to harm us, it would have been done already.”

Dumat’s eyes were still fixed on Hosea, who repaid the attention by plainly ignoring him, having opted to walk toward the corpse of the second bandit that had provided cover for his accomplice who had brutally conquered the driver’s seat—and had only enjoyed the thrill of it for one minute, as he’d soon been busy grappling with Dutch who’d found a way to perch himself onto the shotgun seat.

Dutch clapped his hand on Dumat’s other shoulder. “We were simply trying to spare you the chore of retrieving your goods. I would _hate_ to see your pretty city suit ruined.”

The man’s blood vessels must have been begging him to get his temper under control given the swiftness with which his blush returned. Dutch soon mimicked Hosea and decided not to waste more seconds on Dumat’s scornful tendencies. He stretched his neck to spot the horse of the man who’d been driving the coach to his doom. The grey mount was drinking from the river twenty yards to their left, as peacefully as its bay companion had been grazing on the grass as if waiting patiently to be picked and given to a new, more fortunate master.

When he made his way back, reins in hand, and a peaceful mare falling into step, Hosea was conversing with Mathilda, a double-action revolver in his hand, while her uncle was rummaging in the now opened box, no doubt fishing for the bills and other state bounds it sheltered.

“Do you know how to fire a weapon, Miss?” Hosea asked her.

“I—” She hesitated, but only for a second. “My brother taught me, back in Pittsburgh. It has been a while, though.”

Dumat’s frenetic fumbling came to a halt at his niece’s words. “ _What?_ Oh, as soon as I get to talk to Gilbert about this… A lady shouldn’t have to—”

“He didn’t want me to be defenseless in the West,” she all but snapped. “Mother agreed with him, as a matter of fact.”

“ _What?_ ”

“You’ll know how to use it,” Hosea carried on as if the interruption had never occurred. “Not that I expect you to have to, but it’ll be safer if you take it, just in case.”

Mathilda eyed the weapon circumspectly. Sadly, Dumat took this brief silence as another invitation to communicate his input on the matter at hand.

“I should take it, I am—”

“I’ll take it,” she said, seizing the gun without sparing a glance at her uncle. “Thank you, Mister…?”

“Greenfall. At your service, Miss Kilgore.” Hosea then bent forward to reach for the lady’s free hand in a delicate gesture that would allow her to withdraw it should she refuse the touch. She didn’t, and Hosea slowly brought her fingers in front of his lips before releasing her hand. She didn’t smile this time… She _giggled._ Of course, she giggled.

Dutch contented himself with burying his into his bandana. Hosea always knew how to raise him on his own dares.

“And here is your mount, my lady. She looks like she won’t give you any trouble,” he said in his most reverential voice. The mare snorted happily at him when he petted her from forehead to muzzle. “A real sweetheart. May she carry you where your heart wishes to go.”

He handed her the reins like one would hand a necklace woven in a river of gold and diamonds. A tamer but still distinct chuckle escaped her as she took them in one hand. Dutch blinked in Hosea’s direction, pleased to see a twinkle of mirthful exasperation in his gaze.

“Are you sure you won’t need an escort, Miss?” Dutch asked once more.

She shook her head. “Quite sure,” she answered, giving her uncle a neutral look as he stood up, readjusting his bill-filled jacket. “I don’t know how to thank you both.”

“There is no need, I assure you.”

“Still…” An idea seemed to dawn on her as a frown creased her brow. Her hands flew to her neck, fidgeting with the brooch that tightly held the pans of her collar together. “Please, take this. As compensation for your troubles.”

She extended her hand, revealing the jewel in its delicate intricacies, the blue of the perfectly polished stone at its center reflecting the clearness of the cloudless sky. The gem was encased in golden threads curving downward like folded eagle wings. Dutch was way past the need for the counsel of a pawnbroker or a jeweler to know the piece was more than valuable.

“That is a very fine brooch, Miss Kilgore,” Hosea underlined with sparkling eyes.

The proposition seemed to bring Dumat closer to apoplexy.

“Mathilda, you _cannot_ possibly give away that brooch that was offered to you by Mr. Bertrand! That would be most… rude and _undignified!_ ”

“It is a free country and I am therefore free to give away whatever is mine as I please. I am sure Mr. Bertrand will have the opportunity to reveal his good character and his indulgence when he learns of the full story about how these men saved his future fiancée,” she countered with a dignity that made her look wiser and fiercer than her age implied. She looked back at Dutch and Hosea, her eyebrows rising in an almost defying manner. “Besides… good deeds call for good rewards.”

Dutch eyes slid down to the brooch, then back to her. He couldn’t know about her future fiancé’s indulgence but he was starting to get a good grasp of hers. Whatever naivety she still possessed in her was overshadowed by a perceptiveness that outmatched that of her class—or at least, didn’t care for its barriers and codes.

His hand closed on the jewel, and he couldn’t help himself from taking a closer look at this small object that held the promise of a large stack of cash.

“Why, thank you, Miss Kilgore. This is a very fine piece. Your generosity honors you and shames me, for I don’t believe my words could do justice to your kind gesture,” he said, bowing his head to her once again.

“I believe we made each other’s day worthwhile, Mr. O’Malley. Besides, I guess I’m breathing a little bit better with an open collar. You’ve done me a great service.” She carefully approached the mare’s flank, gracefully sliding her feet into a stirrup before he could even offer her assistance and hauled herself up into the saddle. She then adjusted the stirrup straps to fit her shorter legs with experienced fingers before brushing the horse’s neck. “And who knows, I might offer that lovely mare a second chance in life if fate wills it so.”

Behind her, Dumat was glaring at him and Hosea with unveiled contempt as he mimicked her gestures. His stirrups were ten inches too high at least, which made his stance awkward no matter how straight he sat on the saddle.

“I believe we should depart, Mathilda,” he all but hissed, only half-resigned to accept his inability to disrupt the offensive easiness of that conversation between his niece and two suspicious good-for-nothings who enjoyed roaming the wilderness.

Mathilda smiled at Dutch and Hosea as she replied. “Please Uncle Tacitus, lead the way.”

And so Uncle Tacitus did, yanking on his horse’s reins.

“ _Gentlemen._ ”

With his arms wide open, Dutch held back a grimace of pain and offered him his most extravagant and irreverent bow.

“ _My good sir._ ”

Hosea, hands on his hips, didn’t even tip his hat.

Dumat didn’t wait for the offense to register and kicked his horse into a swift trot. Mathilda Kilgore spared them one last glance before following suit, the hooves of their horses slapping against the shingle of the bank before the noise got absorbed by the thick grass of the plains.

They stared at the two shrinking figures until their silhouettes were but ants on the distant road and the sounds of hooves had faded in the gentle breeze.

“I would have robbed ‘em.”

The deadpan in Hosea’s voice burst the bubble of tranquil silence that had descended upon them with such natural that Dutch could have no other reaction but to roar with laughter like he would at one of Hosea’s best jokes.

“No, you wouldn’t,” he declared once his hilarity had settled down in his chest.

“You sound very certain,” Hosea said, eyes still fixed on the road where Mathilda and Dumat couldn’t be seen anymore. His breathing carried the ghost of apathy and Dutch felt the urgent need to quash it before Hosea got too comfortable in that old decaying nest.

“I _am_ certain,” he argued, now staring at Hosea with what he hoped to be enough insistence to have the conman look back at him. Which he did. “For a fairly simple reason: you _didn’t_.”

Hosea shrugged at him, then squatted to examine the insides of the box, checking if their luck had decided to grant them one or two forgotten bonds, but of course, their luck wouldn’t push that far. “Only because you seemed so keen to help those folks and decided to go all gentlemanly with that young lady and spin all your fancy words.”

“I think I remember you acting the same with said lady, Mister ‘At Your Service’,” Dutch countered, a smirk pulling at his lips.

“Oh, please,” Hosea dismissed with a wave of his hand. “I was too busy lamenting the loss of our entire loot to offer you any sort of real friendly competition on that field.”

“Well… not our entire loot,” Dutch said, his fingers toying with Mathilda’s brooch. “I reckon we can get a good price for that pretty lil’ thing.”

Hosea whistled for the horses before leaning over Dutch’s shoulder, his hand coming to rest against his back.

“There’s always something to celebrate with you, I guess,” he conceded in a reluctant sigh.

Dutch angled his face to flash him a grin. “Exactly.”

With his chin still lingering so close over Dutch’s shoulder, Hosea held his gaze, hazel piercing through brown, brown boring into hazel, both of them locked in a childish pretend duel until that good old spark lit up Hosea’s golden irises like a tenacious and untamable sun.

“You’re impossible”, he quipped as he stepped back, giving Dutch a mild shove of his hips.

“And yet, you’re still here,” Dutch guffawed, putting his hand on Hosea’s shoulder as soon as his partner’s hand had gently brushed off his back.

His laughter shook his chest until a sudden jolt burned in his flank, making him gasp and hug his torso with his free arm. He’d barely let out an _‘oomph’_ that Hosea’s hand was squeezing his bicep.

“Seriously, how bad is it?” he probed, brow furrowed and intransigeant. After nine months spent learning how to read the pages of Hosea Matthews, Dutch recognized the look and knew what sort of glare he’d be at the receiving end of if he tried to bullshit the man too long and too far.

“Probably strained a rib or two. I did land pretty hard on the ground. Don’t think it’s broken,” he drawled, then took a deep breath, trying to shut down the kernel of pain that had lodged itself in his side.

“Here’s hoping. Anything else?” Hosea insisted.

Dutch rolled his eyes but indulged him nonetheless. “I think I hit my head but I was already well onto the shore when that happened. No need to fret about it. What about you, you okay?”

Hosea clicked his tongue, which had both their horses jog quicker in their direction. He handed Dutch his own reins after petting Empress’s muzzle. Dutch half-suspected him to frequently bribe her with treats for her to be so docilely responsive to his calls.

“I think one of the bastards burned the back of my hat with a bullet, but I’ll live.”

“And the bastards?”

Hosea pushed himself onto Diamond Ace’s back, then tipped his hat up with his thumb. “Didn’t stop to ask their corpses how they were doin’.”

Dutch’s snigger was stifled under the strain of climbing onto the saddle, which dragged another groan from his throat.

“Son of a bitch,” he croaked, trying to figure out which muscles he could rely on to avoid feeling a sharp throb in his lower thorax at each of Empress’s jolts. This was a ride he was gonna remember deep in bones. Knowing their camp was only a couple of miles away would have to be his main solace during the trip.

“Try to keep that back straight,” Hosea said. His keen eye hardly missed much of anything. Dutch had found out some time ago that _he_ in particular would always have trouble hiding things from Hosea. More peculiar than this discovery was the realization that it didn’t bother him like he had expected it to.

“This isn’t how I pictured this day to end,” he winced, one his hands pressing against his side.

“Well,” Hosea mused, his features drawn in an exaggerated pondering pout, eyes looking up at the sky, “it ain’t over yet. With any luck, you might only have a bruised rib and not a collection of strains and broken bones, and I won’t have to lose hours of sleep over checking each one of them. So chin up!”

And so keep his chin up Dutch did.

He did so for as long as he could at least, for there was no avoiding the persisting ache in his entire body as Empress and Diamond Ace followed the westward course of the sun, abandoning behind them the carcass of that day’s hopes and dreams. After five already too long minutes, he realized his ribs were not his only problem: there was a persistent throbbing in his left knee, and the wind brushing against his skin made the cuts on his face and neck pulse like fresh burns. The weight of the entire day and the implacable reality of their botched job—no matter how entertaining all the disruptions had proved—suddenly fell onto his shoulder like an iron shawl. He let Hosea take the lead, trusting Empress to keep up the pace as her instinct always rightfully told her to, without him having to even whisper an encouraging word in her ear.

The sky had already reddened above them. The shadows of the trees weaved a dark carpet on the ground of the forest, and newly born flowers took on the colors of fallen leaves as their petals went to sleep.

Dutch could force his jaw to relax for the first ten minutes of their ride. A constant grimace of tiredness was etched on his face for the other ten. Getting off Empress’s back, although a much-desired outcome, honed the invisible needles poking at his left side.

He blinked, and Hosea’s left hand was on his back the next second, only a few inches below his neck.

“C’mon. I’ll start a fire and get a look at you.”

No battle was wrought in a futile dual attempt to protect his sense of amour-propre and preserve some of Hosea’s sanity from the now recurring sight of Dutch coming back from jobs with noticeable wounds to lick. That evening, like many past evenings ever since he met the conman, Dutch felt like letting the ashes of his battles get caught in the wind, and leaned against Hosea’s touch as their feet carried them to the log at the center of their camp.

As soon as Dutch’s ass landed on the log, making him wince some more, Hosea paced to their nearby stack of firewood. The gentle breeze of twilight carried the chirping of crickets and Dutch stretched his neck to look up at the darkening sky; each second saw its multiple shades of orange and pink water down into starless indigo.

He only lowered his gaze when the first crackle of wood disrupted the music of the nocturnal insects. Hosea was looking at him, crouched by the fire, expression strangely unreadable, his face and hazel eyes sharing the same golden hue as if the light of the blossoming flames had repainted his skin with fluttering brushstrokes. When their eyes met, Hosea took off his hat and ran his fingers through pale blond hair that would turn the full moon green with envy. A barely audible sigh passed his lips, like a secret lost into the night.

“Do I look so awful?” Dutch half-joked. His voice, deeper than he’d intended, sounded remote to his own ears, as if his words had no place in this little here-and-now kept in the small circle of this hidden forest clearing they’d called home for the past week.

Hosea smiled before he shook his head no. “Awful ain’t the word.” He rose to his feet and marked a pause. “Your hair could use a comb.”

“And pomade, I take it,” Dutch said, brushing his hand through his curls. A tingling, burning sensation awoke at the back of his skull as he felt a warm dampness coat the tip of his fingers.

“Not _too_ much of it, though,” Hosea replied as he moved to sit by his side on the log.

“Why do I feel like I’m being poked at— _ouch!_ ”

Hosea’s fingers were poking alright, directly at his bruised scalp. “You got a nice cut up there. Ain’t need for no stitches but it won’t look pretty if it gets infected. Especially with that heavy hair pampering routine of yours. Actually, you should lay off the pomade for a couple of days.”

“I am _not_ gonna do that,” Dutch warned in a low rumble.

“What if I ask you nicely?”

No listener would have failed to catch the mischief in Hosea’s tone, but only Dutch was privy to the fondness he could read on his smile. He wondered if there was someone out there who had been blessed by that same smile in Hosea’s past. He hoped there wasn’t.

“You’re a cruel man, Hosea.”

“Not yet, I ain’t,” he replied with a swat on Dutch’s shoulder as he looked down to rummage the inside of his satchel to extract a small flask and a piece of white cloth. “Lemme see those ribs.”

Making a point of exhaling loudly, Dutch unbuttoned his black vest before moving on to his shirt. Hosea set down the flask on the ground and the cloth on his knees and waited patiently for Dutch’s hands to part his shirt open. His skin was already bruising in two different places, turning a greenish yellow that would undoubtedly be purple the next morning. The contusion on the left lower portion of his thorax was the most evident, but his right side had had its own share of collision with a blunt surface—whether it had been a rock on the riverbank or a fractured part of the stagecoach, Dutch couldn’t recall.

“Told you, nothing new,” he mumbled as he observed the frown deepening on Hosea’s face.

With his mouth partially covered by his hooked index finger, Hosea gave him a silent look that wasn’t a glare but wasn’t a capitulation either. “Hmm. You can breathe alright?”

“Yeah. I mean, I feel a pang, but it ain’t too bad.”

“How big of a pang?” Hosea pressed, his gaze unmoving.

“Like a burn. If I move or breathe too hard, it feels like someone stuck a lit cigar inside and gets rubbing the tip against the bone.”

“But you can still breathe okay?”

“I told you I could.”

Hosea made a ‘ _tsk’_ sound and raised his left hand right above his bruised flank. “May I?”

“Of course, Old Girl.”

Hosea’s scowl relaxed, the nickname tugging back on that playful thread they couldn’t help pulling whenever one of them felt like the other could use the jolt.

His hand flattened against his bruise. The comfortable chill of the breeze suddenly felt cold on his skin as Hosea’s palm spread his gentle warmth through the touch.

“Not hurting, so far?”

“No,” Dutch exhaled.

Slowly, carefully, Hosea applied pressure on his side, the pulp of his fingers pushing against the mold of his lower rib cage, mapping the expanse of the bruise, taking in the tension that tautened the skin and muscles under his hand.

“Relax,” Hosea said.

“I am relaxed,” Dutch responded.

The heel of Hosea’s palm pushed only a fraction harder, and it was all it took to make him jump and wince.

Hosea’s eyes looked up in an unspoken apology before he added: “Have to make sure it’s not broken.”

“T’s fine. You know I trust you.”

“The more foolish of you. Trusting a conman, really,” his partner jibed. The breeze felt a little colder against Dutch’s face and neck as Hosea looked back at him. “Can you take a deep breath and hold it?” Hosea asked, his frown returning, more subtle.

Dutch contemplated asking why, but the day was long gone behind them, and Dutch reckoned Hosea’s patience—although an increasing resource with each passing day—shouldn’t be wasted away like cheap whiskey. So Dutch breathed in deeply, and the burning pang wrapped itself around his ribs once again with a vengeance. Nevertheless, he was able to hold the air inside his lungs, waiting for Hosea’s signal. When he nodded, Dutch released the pressure built up inside his chest with a careful exhale, expelling the pain and air in the same breath.

Hosea’s frown instantly loosened like an untied knot. His hand slipped off Dutch’s skin as he picked up and uncorked the vial to pour its contents into the folds of the white band he’d taken from his satchel. Dutch could still feel the weight of his palm and fingers against his body, like a ghost print left on his skin.

“No coughing. Means it’s most probably not broken, but you should be watchin’ it. There’s not much I can do except get you some infusion or tonic for the pain and you getting some rest. But your lungs seem to be fine. You’ll live.”

Dutch shrugged. “Up until next time, hmm?”

Hosea smacked the other side of his thorax as he stood to clean the thin gash at the back of his skull. Dutch bowed his head forward and rested his elbows on his lap. The sting of alcohol persisted well after Hosea had shifted his attention back to his front.

“You’re a dumb idiot,” Hosea stated like one would comment on the weather

“ _Ah_. And here I was, thinkin’ I was a smart one,” Dutch teased.

“ _I’m_ the smart idiot,” Hosea amended, pointing his index finger up before resuming his small work. “Can’t be more than that anyway, followin’ you around, doin’ these jobs… Dreamin’ too big.”

Words slid through Dutch’s mind like pearls stringing onto a silk thread, but the question they asked remained stuck in his throat in an unexpected surge of paralyzing cautiousness.

Doubt and hesitation were the venoms of the brain. Since the day he’d walked out his mother’s door, he’d intended to turn his life into the antidote as he trod this growingly apathetic world. Inexplicably—and yet so naturally—just like instinct would sometimes point to a greater truth before reason even learns of it, Hosea had become a compass pointing toward certainty. But Dutch had never stopped himself to think about how a compass couldn’t indicate all the hurdles and twists and turns along the way. He’d had no need nor desire to. As such, he couldn’t have predicted the rock that was now stuck in his throat and felt like an extension of the wall that had suddenly risen in his mind, an opaque towering barrier that had never appeared between him and the simple thought of Hosea before that evening. A terrified part of him wanted to run away before the wrong word made it collapse and revealed what waited on the other side.

But Hosea’s left hand was supporting his chin, the tips of his fingers brushing against his jaw more than they were holding it, their touch so light and yet so acute on his skin, like feathers made of lead. His other hand was applying the imbibed cotton over a cut on his cheekbone he hadn’t even felt back then, and barely felt now. His cheek was hot around the bruise despite the cold stinging of the alcohol. Every sensation was a duality that anchored him on the spot, while each of his nerves seemed to be reaching out.

When he was done, Hosea looked up, and their eyes locked. The rock-hard knot in Dutch’s throat trapped his breath as easily as it had caught his words. The hand holding the cloth fell, but the hazel eyes remained unmoving, searching. The silence pervading the air was nothing like what Dutch had come to identify as _their_ silence. It was burdened with words too heavy for their tongues, thicker than the smoke rising above the campfire. It was, Dutch decided, unsettling.

And, above that, it was irresistible. No running away from it.

It could only last so long till the words got _too_ heavy and his lungs too empty.

Dutch’s voice sounded like it had come from a distant land rather than his mouth when he finally asked, “Does the ‘followin’ me around’ relate to the ‘smart’ part or the ‘idiot’ part?”

And _god_ , those hazel eyes stayed fixed on his. Their gentleness was veiled, like a gold-tinted mirror sending back a reflection of brown he himself couldn’t quite comprehend. The question was left hanging, fleeting through the air like the smell of charred pinewood, intangible but pungent.

Dutch had never been more aware of his own breathing, or Hosea’s.

The fire cracked, and Hosea’s gaze dropped. The rock that had obstructed Dutch’s throat plummeted in his stomach.

Perhaps Hosea was capable of untangling himself from… whatever _this_ was, but Dutch couldn’t look away, and the only thing more petrifying than the prospect of doing so was the inescapable realization that he had no desire to.

Hosea’s focus was tied to his own hands, riveted to the cuts on Dutch’s chest that his fingers were cleaning with such care. The blood had already dried, but his pulse, beating more sharply under the vault of his skin, made them feel like cracks in the structure of a temple he had thought more solid.

“Are you mad at me?” Dutch inquired after failing to capture Hosea’s look for the third time in one minute.

That finally dragged Hosea’s attention up again. A slight frown creased his forehead. “No,” came the instant, non-hesitant answer. “I was just… thinkin’.”

“About what?”

Hosea’s stare was warmer than all the fires he’d kindled with his lithe, experienced fingers, warmer than many of the sinful or virtuous comforts a man could seek or beg for in this world.

“About whatever strange star alignment had me meet _you,_ and not some poor soul that I would’ve robbed and killed if need be without a second thought.”

Just as abruptly as the air had locked and crystallized inside Dutch’s throat the first time Hosea’s gaze had plunged into his, freezing his thoughts as much as his lungs, the dam that had kept the oxygen trapped in his trachea burst as a wave of adoration and protective outrage washed over him. Dutch inhaled sharply, grasping Hosea’s wrist in a gesture he hoped transmitted his affection as well as his earnestness.

“You keep doing this today. Why?”

Hosea blinked and tilted his head, looking down at Dutch’s hand delicately wrapped around his wrist. “Doing what?”

“Framin’ yourself as the murderous, second-rate human being that you obviously are _not_.”

Hosea’s frown deepened as a gentle but melancholy smile tugged on his lips. Dutch could read his lack of response better than any evasive words. He recalled Hosea’s face back then, half-turned to that road down which their premeditated victims had run, remembered the obscured dejection clinging to each of the words _‘I would have robbed ‘em’_ as if it were an indisputable law of nature that no man or storm could ever alter.

In all the months they’d spent riding together, _learning_ together, Hosea knew when to acknowledge when he’d been wrong about something—a disposition that Dutch still struggled with for his part, no matter how reluctant he was to even broach the thought. But here it was, the sole mistake Hosea ever failed to recognize as such: the way he saw _himself_. A mistake Hosea might be willing to live with, but that Dutch would drag to the ground and kick and thrash and grapple with on his behalf till his dying breath. If this contemplation had always been running in the undercurrents of his mind, it emerged that night as a polished, inevitable conviction such as only Hosea could awake in him.

“You gave her a gun,” Dutch asserted, his voice deep and unshakable.

One of Hosea’s eyebrows shot up and his eyes narrowed. “And?”

“Nobody asked you to do such a thing. _You_ gave her a gun… because she might have needed protection.”

Hosea’s brow creased once more, deeper than it had a minute prior. His hand slowly extricated itself from Dutch’s hold to apply the cloth to a longer gash running across his collarbone. “You were the one who decided to let those two moneybags get away. I didn’t get no sayin’ in that. I simply followed your lead, because why not?”

His hand stopped as a low chuckle rose in Dutch’s chest. “Come on. Don’t grant me powers I don’t possess. I ain’t never been able to force you to do something you didn’t wanna do, and I don’t reckon nobody ever will,” he insisted. “And don’t take me for a fool. You know I didn’t let them go because I suddenly took pity on our old, sniveling ‘Uncle Tacitus’. You noticed it too, the fire in Miss Kilgore.”

Dutch’s mischievous tone soon conquered Hosea’s scowl.

“She had some spirit, that girl,” he admitted.

“Some spirit that could flourish into something, someday. Who knows? Maybe she’ll run away and avoid that dreadful marriage affair,” Dutch guffawed. “Hell, even join a gang, she apparently don’t mind having a chat with one.”

“That’s very naive, coming from you, Mister van der Linde,” Hosea drawled humorously.

Dutch moved closer to him, a conspiratorial sparkle shining in his eyes. “Ain’t it? I should be the one worryin’ about losin’ myself.” When Hosea laughed, the sparkle melted into a pool of fondness unbound by the mere confines of Dutch’s eyes or smile, the words pouring from his mouth like a calm stream, “You’re a good actor, Hosea, but that hardass, cold-hearted, bullshit act of yours? You should drop it.”

Hosea’s ensuing silence was its own form of contestation.

“Because I never bought it,” Dutch replied to the unspoken challenge. A blink was all the hesitation he granted himself before his hand reached for Hosea’s neck, his fingers cupping his nape, his thumb naturally finding its place right into the hollow behind his jawbone like it belonged there. A tingle coursed through his nerves, from the extremities of his fingers to the back of his hand “Hosea, you should believe in yourself more.”

Hosea’s eyes widened, although whether for the hot contact against his neck or the untarnished faith woven in his words, or both, Dutch couldn’t say. He only knew of Hosea’s skin against his, the thin layer of perspiration below the pale blond hair falling in a wave behind his ear, the hazel depth of his eyes into which he would let himself drown and call it a mercy.

The piece of cotton was all but dry against his skin. Dutch felt it land softly on his lap but Hosea’s hand stayed where it was. His gaze fell once again, but it was nothing like abandonment. His index and middle fingers lingered in the valley of his clavicles. The pad of his thumb gently tapped the birth of his collarbone, like a greeting.

Dutch wet his lips, but Hosea was the one to break the silence.

“I couldn’t see where you’d gone when I heard the crash.”

Dutch’s eyes batted in confusion as he registered what Hosea was referring to.

“I don’t even remember where or when I shot the last two guys in that forest. Until I reached the river, all I could picture was you lying dead under that damn stagecoach, or shot through the head or chest by one of them.” Hosea’s thumb was now stroking the bone back and forth, almost absentmindedly, as his entire palm got to rest against his chest, mindful of the cuts. Dutch felt its weight gently pull at his hair, the heel of Hosea’s hand pressing right over his heart now turned into a bird desperately fluttering its wings inside the trap of his ribcage. “I didn’t give a damn about the loot.”

When Hosea looked back at him, a newly found radiance brightened his features, his eyes no longer obscured by any kind of protective mirror, but glowing with the light of comfort and certainty.

“To answer your previous question,” Hosea continued, his voice now but a murmur floating over the night and smoke, “I don’t know where or _what_ I’d be if I hadn’t met you. Following you wasn’t only the smartest, but the _best_ decision I ever made in my life.”

Dutch remained speechless as he stared at this man, this _wonder of a man_ , whose affection blessed each one of his days spent on this earth. He looked into those golden eyes and, for the first time in his life, he knew what lovers, poets, and children meant by the word ‘home’.

It only seemed natural when Hosea leaned closer, lips parted, merging their breaths into one, letting time suspend itself and forge the moment into a memory. Hosea’s hand reverently slid up Dutch’s torso to cup the side of his neck, and Dutch’s hand tightened around his, brushing his thumb against his cheek.

They let their gazes drift down to each other’s lips once.

Hosea’s eyes were searching. Dutch’s were pleading.

Their lips met in the same movement, like two reflections reaching at the same time through the mirror only to find _themselves_ on the other side. They pulled back for a second, one inch apart, before they brushed once again, patient and savoring. They parted once more, only to collide with renewed determination, their mouths opening to let their tongues taste each other’s warmth in slow, worshipping motions.

The flutter inside Dutch’s chest exploded, the giant bird stuck in his heart splitting into a flock of thousands of smaller feathered creatures flying through his veins and nerves. The tranquil intensity of their kiss settled deep in his stomach, and surely, it would be impossible for Dutch to ever feel cold again.

The flames were still dancing when they leaned back, drinking in the sight of the other, the soft orange glimmer highlighting each curve and angle of their faces. The sky was dark, but Hosea was his own color palette, the cold blues and greys of the sleeping shadows of the forest contrasting with the pale yellow and somber reds molding the curve of his right ear and cheek, the point of his nose, the elegant wave of his hair sweeping right above his brow. The corners of Dutch’s lips curled up at the thought that some people claimed the night could never paint prettier pictures than a sunny day. _How wrong they were_.

Hosea smiled as well, his thumb mimicking Dutch’s rubbing against his cheekbone. His left hand landed on Dutch’s knee as he pressed their foreheads together. The pressure on his leg made Dutch’s eyebrows twitch.

“ _Hmf_. Bruise,” he mumbled, still relishing the elation that had washed over his entire being through that kiss that suffered no equal in his past.

“Sorry, sorry,” Hosea whispered, suppressing his weight to offer a soothing caress instead, before raising his hand to cradle the other side of Dutch’s face.

He sealed their lips once more in an apologetic peck, then another, then rubbed their noses together until Dutch decided to tip his head to chase after Hosea’s ear, cheeks and eyelids with his lips, making him giggle with exasperated fondness, which only drove Dutch to seek another full mouth kiss as his own chuckle resounded in his chest. Hosea’s lips welcomed his as if he’d been the one pursuing them in the first place, his right hand climbing up toward Dutch’s black locks, burying his fingers into his curls as a blanket of peace enfolded them in this new world they’d just made for themselves.

They remained seated on that log too long for neither of them to care, their sides pressed together, forehead against forehead, eyelids drooping and fingers intertwined. The black vault of the sky was peppered with stars, too high for the glowing, flying embers to ever hope to reach them, but close enough for Dutch to accept them as his only roof.

Eventually, a yawn clawed its way out of his chest. Hosea nuzzled his cheek until Dutch blinked at him, then tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. “You’re tired,” he said, his voice made blunt by fatigue.

“We both are,” Dutch responded, rubbing a circle over the back of Hosea’s hand.

No other prompt was needed. Hosea gently disentangled himself from Dutch’s lax hold, keeping his hand in his to help him up. Dutch groaned at the stretch, drawing an amused huff from Hosea as he helped him button up his shirt. He then wrapped an arm around Dutch’s waist to guide them to their bedrolls with a semblance of dignified gait, which of course was compromised by Dutch playfully nestling his nose into the crook of his neck.

“You’re worse than a drunk,” Hosea sniggered, flicking his ear in retaliation.

“Maybe you made me one,” Dutch mumbled.

Hosea snorted, letting go of his hip as Dutch lowered himself down onto his roll, and it amazed him how much all of these touches, all this suddenly uncompromised intimacy felt so new and yet so obstinately familiar. Like it had all been planted from the start, twin seeds sprouting up in their hearts, giving birth to tendrils that soon braided with one another, growing more and more interlaced with each season. It had all been there from the start, and now, new fruits were ready for the picking.

“God, you need sleep.”

 _I need you_.

Perhaps he’d said that one aloud because Hosea smiled at him and didn’t bat an eye when Dutch, eyes already closed and lying on his back, spread out an arm toward Hosea’s bedroll and dragged it right next to his. A victorious smirk appeared on his face as he sensed Hosea straighten the roll and settle at his side without an objection. Nevertheless, Dutch didn’t move further, leaving Hosea enough space if he wanted out.

He felt the back of a hand graze his, light but assured. An invitation.

Dutch took it, pressing his knuckles against Hosea’s and snuggling his face into his shoulder, humming deeply, safe and content.

Hosea tucked his nose into his hair. “Try and sleep on your back.”

Dutch exhaled a sluggish acknowledgment, breathing in Hosea’s smell of pinewood and crackling fire, and basking in his warmth.

He fell asleep but was fated to wake up way before the rise of the sun. It couldn’t have been more than two or three hours later when a chill washed over his bones. Driven by sleepy instinct, his hand reached for the comforting heat on his right side only to close on a rumpled roll. He frowned as his arm rubbed over the wrinkled cover like that of a kid left to his own devices on a winter day, trying to draw angels in the snow. His grunt was made hoarser by his interrupted sleep as he stretched his neck and blinked his eyes open. His vision was still blurred when he caught sight of a silhouette squatting next to the fire. He blinked again and realized the flames were climbing higher into the night than they’d been when they’d agreed to go to bed.

“‘Sea?” he croaked, eyes still half-closed.

The shape expanded and drew closer until the shape of Hosea’s feet became more distinct before their owner slowly slipped back into his bedroll. “Fire was dyin’,” Hosea explained in a gruff drawl, air fleeing his lungs in an exhausted sigh. “Go back to sleep,” he added, his hand instantly finding its old position against Dutch’s.

Dutch’s hand, however, slithered under Hosea’s arm and toward his hips as his whole body rolled onto its flank, ignoring the throbbing pain that stirred inside his side as his other arm wrapped itself around Hosea, who started at Dutch’s sudden clinginess but did not pry himself off. Quite the opposite, in fact, for his body soon rolled on itself as well as he offered his back to Dutch’s chest and grumbled something about Dutch’s ribs.

“‘T's fine,” Dutch replied in a whisper. “... cold.”

Hosea’s immediate response was to further press his back against him, draping one of Dutch’s hands with his and huffing contentedly as Dutch fully clasped his arms around his middle. Dutch buried his face into the fabric of Hosea’s shirt, humming quietly when Hosea brought his other hand to his lips and kissed his hardened knuckles.

“Don’ go,” Dutch muttered, clinging to Hosea’s body as if it were the sole source of heat left on the planet despite the revived fire and the chill of the night being nowhere close to the harsh colds of winters or even mediocre springs.

Nowhere near as cold as that day in Minnesota, with the bison… He’d held him close then too.

“I won’t,” came the quiet, drowsy response.

Dutch hid a tired smile in the hollow of Hosea’s neck.

“Good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THEY KITHED :D


	4. The First Time They Made Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boo. Howdy, fellas?
> 
> Still not dead.
> 
> So... I have an excellent excuse as to why this is getting published so late. Two, actually. 1/ I'm an extremely slow writer; 2/ This chapter got... way longer than what I had initially anticipated. Like _way longer_. As in "oh, this is taking 52 pages on Google Docs, which officially makes it the longest chapter I've ever written for a fic, only a dozen pages shorter than the longest fic I've written." That much.  
> And after a full week of heavy work, I sure do hope this chapter ain't filled with mistakes (but again, I have chosen to die on this hill like a woman by having no beta here, this is on me). I hope you will forgive me for hoping for your indulgence.
> 
> Oh also, the warnings promised explicit content... here it comes. This, ladies and gentlemen, is not only the first piece of smut I've written for this cowboy fandom but the first piece of smut I've written period (in English, that is). Soo.. ahem. Yeah. Here it is. Tadaaaa.
> 
> Before I go i need to thank two people:  
> 1/ AGAIN, because I like repeating myself, my good friend [platonicharmonics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/platonicharmonics/pseuds/platonicharmonics), who's supported me and cheered on me through the good and bad days, and has shown nothing but overwhelming enthusiasm for this chapter, and this fic as a whole ((honestly, I ain't sure I would even have reached that chapter were it not for that good man here). Needless to say, his talent and own contribution to the RDR fandom and our dear Vandermatthews ship has also been fuel in my engine, as I strive every day to be worthy of those gems he's offered us on this website. You're the best, brother.  
> 2/ And of course, I cannot leave without thanking [Selene (aka the-curious-couple-fanart)](https://the-curious-couple-fanart.tumblr.com/) who has not only shown unbound enthusiasm and love for this fic, but ALSO OFFERED ME THE GREATEST HONOR BY DRAWING [THIS MAGNIFICENT PIECE OF FANART](https://the-curious-couple-fanart.tumblr.com/post/631429850770653184/it-only-seemed-natural-when-hosea-leaned-closer) FOR THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER OF THIS FIC (aka "the first time they kissed"). She's immensely talented, and I've been staring at this masterpiece for days now. There are still tears in my eyes. If you guys do love this ship, then I know you will love Selene's RDR2 art...
> 
> Now have some proper **CONTENT WARNINGS** for this chapter for **antisemitism** , referenced future **public humiliation (via public nudity)** and suggested **alcoholism** and **physical child abuse**. As for the smut, well, be ready for **talkative horny cowboys** and also **fluffy sweetness** because these two are making love for the first time. Also I think Hosea might be **sweerty talking** at some point (got it? Sweet/Dirty -> Sweerty).
> 
> ***
> 
>  **Translation for Dutch** (the language, not the big outlaw): _Blijkbaar, sukkel._ \--> _Evidently, you dumbass._
> 
> I hope you enjoy my take on the Great Kettering Incident, Ohio.

They had not initially considered making it personal.

Evasion, after all, was its own purpose. Whatever eggs one given criminal might break walking out of a cell, there was no reason to aggravate the appointed officer of the law that stood on their way beyond what was strictly necessary, and even less so in a manner that could have been deemed ‘personal’. Most of the time, the evading itself was humbling enough for said officer, something any good outlaw would find satisfactory.

Most of the time.

An important distinction, for Clinton Carmichael, elected Sheriff of Kettering, Ohio, was currently working against his own best interests by revealing himself to be a complete and utter piece of trash in front of his two recently acquired inmates.

It dawned on them only after spending a fair amount of time sitting in his cell. Hosea and Dutch had started a silent conversation animated by the sole movements of their eyes, trying to ignore their guardian’s conceited sneers and various self-congratulatory tirades. While Hosea had remained unfazed save for the occasional smirk, there came a point around midday when containing his amusement proved too difficult for Dutch, for Charmichael was hellbent on demonstrating his inclination for loud blustering, which, for all intents and purposes, was much more remarkable that his actual sheriffing.

“Sure hope you’re finding the cell to your liking, boys. Sorry if it ain’t fancy like your rooms in—where was it your little business was, Portugal? Well, sure looks like you’re both staying in Kettering. Say _adiós_ to Madrid!”

His guffaw was meant to reverberate through the main road and adjacent alley so that each good citizen of the town could be reassured as to their county officer’s competence and vast knowledge of the world, which surely were to be commended for the capturing of the two criminals who had tricked twelve people into a devious and twisted confidence scheme. A figure the authorities—which, in the case of Kettering, meant Carmichael and his two freshly appointed deputies—had been downplaying until they’d finally got a hold of the two reprobates. Once that had been done, they had expressly carried said figure like a badge of merit and flaunted it like peacocks fanning their feathery tails at whoever had the pleasure to play the part of an audience—which, as Dutch came to learn during his and Hosea’s sojourn in the sheriff’s rather cramped cell, mainly consisted in the poor inhabitants passing by the sheriff’s office and who merely had in mind to carry on with their day.

And, after a long while exposed to this spectacle, Dutch just found himself _unable_ to resist.

“Hey, Sheriff! Would you happen to know the way to Timbuktu? I’m afraid I am not as inclined as you in the learning of geography, but I would die for the delicious French _cuisine_ they make there. Maybe _crêpes_ , you ever tried those?”

Carmichael certainly made Dutch’s intervention worth it with the way his brow had creased in confusion, although the dark spark in his eyes also made it clear that Dutch’s biting mockery, so expertly weaved in an exaggerated French accent, hadn’t been lost on him.

Hosea barely made an effort to conceal his irreverent snort into a cough, and the glint in his eyes was enough to unlock Dutch’s own contained hilarity, which in Dutch’s mind cemented his partner’s responsibility in what he _de facto_ considered a conjoined effort in souring the sheriff’s mood. But Dutch would have to give it to Hosea eventually: he’d been the one who’d roared his insult in the presence of the two deputies, and loud enough for everyone in the street to hear too.

By then, Carmichael’s shortcomings in the field of geography were no obstacle to the burning conclusion that slithered to the front of his consciousness: the petty degenerate he’d put behind bars was purely and simply making public fun of him, in front of his deputies, no less. An unpardonable offense that Dutch knew would have gotten him some bruises if he’d made the mistake of standing too close to the bars.

Once Carmichael had dismissed his loyal deputies with a tactfulness that would have made an enraged elephant look delicate in comparison, he stomped towards the dark corner of the room dedicated to the temporary custody of the law’s victims—a stomping made all the noisier with the clicking and clacking of his heavily spurred and decidedly too-large pair of quickdraw boots—only to be confronted to a disagreeable sight: Dutch was leaning against the far wall of the cell with one foot propped against its stones and his arms folded before his chest, head tilted backward with a roguish smile he usually kept in store for easily riled-up lawmen.

“You mockin’ me, boy?”

“ _Blijkbaar, sukkel_.”

The barrier of what appeared to be an entirely unknown language to the sheriff only intensified the furious spark in his eye as his mustache bristled over his trembling upper lip.

“You got quite the tongue for someone who’s getting the noose before next Sunday, boy. Wonder if it’ll squeal so loud when you get all squirmin’ at the end of a rope.”

Dutch’s eyebrows rose almost to his hairline but neither his stance nor his smile wavered. “The noose? For a few exchanges of bonds between consenting and ambitious citizens? Now, come on, my good man, you ain’t serious?”

“Don’t play that game, _van der Linde_. Oh yes, I know who you are. You and _Matthews_ here are wanted men in Slotkin County. There’s a US marshal there who wants you. For armed robbery, rustling, disturbance of the peace, and _murder_. Care to say anything about that last one?”

“Well, I would have qualified that as a mere exercise of self-defense, but I’ll assume the charge of robbery erased that notion by the time they got to the printer’s office. Also ‘ _disturbance of the peace_ ’? In Slotkin?” Dutch frowned before looking down at Hosea, who’d been quietly sitting on the wood bench siding the adjacent wall, hands buried deep in the pockets of his duster, legs stretched long before him, crossing at the ankles in that endearingly debonair manner of his. “You think it was that time in the saloon when we were—”

Carmichael apparently didn’t care much about the saloon incident if the sudden unholstering of his revolver was proof of anything.

All of Dutch’s muscles tensed immediately under the cover of his skin, but he didn’t budge an inch. Hosea, on the other hand, carefully uncrossed his legs. The sheriff then made a show of rising and pointing his barrel just above Dutch’s head. There was a deafening detonation, followed by the insidious ringing left by the shock of metal against stone. None of the three men uttered a word as they watched Dutch’s bullet-pierced hat tumble down his face to end its fatal course on the dusty floor.

The air hung heavy with the smoke and smell of gunpowder, only disturbed by the lawman’s boisterous breathing, as if that easy shot had been enough to tire him like an ox halfway through its daily plowing toil.

Then, Dutch exhaled a long, weary sigh.

“Dammit,” he grunted, running a hand through his hair to tame the few strands tousled by the fall of his now ruined headwear. “I liked that hat.”

“I’ll steal you a new one,” Hosea said in a casual tone. The slight curl of his lips, however, carved an unmistakable fondness in his expression.

Dutch smiled. “ _Aw_ , you would spoil me so, Old Girl?”

“ _Jesus Christ and his sweet mother in Heaven_ , shut the hell up, _both of you!_ Or I won’t miss next time.”

Hosea’s eyes slowly drifted toward the lawman, his smile shifting into something sharper and darker. Dutch didn’t notice right away, but his hands had balled into fists inside his pockets following Carmichael’s little display of legal authority. “That’s quite the swearing, you got here, Sheriff. What would your own sweet momma say? And what would the US marshal say if you took the lives of the two men he’s looking for before he got there for the questionin’ and judgin’ he’ll want to do with them? Do you reckon he’ll take that off your pay?”

Carmichael’s glare fell on Hosea. His partner’s lips were smiling, but Dutch knew of the cutting threat sheathed in the dark of his irises. The sheriff’s eyes, two pale grey beads bored in his skull but circled with puffy eyelids, squinted at Hosea’s rictus as if trying to make sense of the apparent—and deceptive—offhandedness of the second man sitting in his cell, who wasn’t bothered in the least by the prospect of either hanging or being shot. Whichever result his peering got him didn’t seem to satisfy him.

“ _Hosea_ Matthews, right?” Carmichael asked after a significant beat. “That’s a _Jewish_ name, ain’t it?”

A cold current shot through Dutch’s veins the moment his ears caught the hardly veiled distaste coating Carmichael’s words. Hosea remained impeccably still.

A vicious grin slowly stretched the sheriff’s mouth at the unspoken confirmation. “Yeah, figured a stinky Jew would be all about getting his nose in other people’s pay business. Sounds like your kind.”

And just like that, this evasion process had become personal.

The walls of the narrow cell shook and cement dust fell like snow onto the ground when Dutch lunged at the metallic bars with such force and speed that Carmichael nearly stumbled to the floor like a frightened rabbit, escaping Dutch’s grasp just in the nick time.

The low, deep growl that clawed its way out of Dutch’s chest carried all the promises and threats contained in his boiling blood as he glared at the sheriff like he would have been looking down at the scum of the earth, holding the bars in tight, white-knuckled fists. “ _One more word_ , Charmichael…”

“ _Dutch_.”

The call was loud. Sudden and harsh, like a trunk split open by lightning _._

Dutch didn’t flinch when Carmichael found back a semblance of poise, nor when the sheriff made a point of pressing the barrel of his gun right against the center of his forehead as he howled a warning about all the powers conferred to him by the law of the State when confronted to the disrespect of _scum_ like them. Dutch simply stared, willing his eyes into drills that would pierce through the skull of the man and plant the seeds of fear into his brain. He stared until he saw it, the vacillating glimmer of dread in the blue marbles of a man endorsed by a law that in the end would be powerless to shield his flesh from the steel of a blade or the lead of a bullet, or even the crushing weight of a fist. He stared until the metal cylinder plunged back into its holster and the small, pitiful man walked back to the open entrance of his office to lean against its frame, masking the stink of his fear with a dry and stuttering belly laugh thrown at the street like the soliloquy of a mediocre comedian stuck on a stage, catching a passing-by woman in the net of his insufferable boasting and umpteenth retelling of the capture of two notorious and degenerate outlaws.

Only then Dutch turned to look at his partner, brows furrowed and lips parted open with a silent question. But the anger that had tinted Hosea’s voice so acutely and that Dutch expected to see engraved on his features was nowhere to be found. Instead, Hosea was looking up at him with eyes shining with a glow that had nothing to do with wrath or his usual mischief, and a smile that spoke of nothing but affection.

“You know, there are moments when your wild stallion fury brings nothing but trouble and promises of an early grave for both of us,” he whispered in the confines of the cell, “and others when it just makes you look even more handsome than you already are.”

The gloom of their jail didn’t quite manage to conceal the sudden flush that rose to Dutch’s ears, which had the equally annoying and mesmerizing outcome of Hosea’s smile blooming into a full grin.

Hosea glanced toward their still socially busy jailer before slowly lifting a hand. Dutch took it without a second thought, his brain still swirling on itself, because Hosea just had that power over him.

“It’s alright,” Hosea soothed him, squeezing his hand.

“I profoundly believe it’s not,” Dutch replied, squeezing back before sitting by Hosea. “Why did you stop me?”

“I have an idea,” Hosea conspiratorially replied under his breath, his voice getting even lower, and Dutch knew from that cue that the Sheriff’s attention was about to slide back onto them.

Hosea released his hand, and Dutch felt the ghost of a kiss caress his cheekbone before his partner sprang to his feet, leaving Dutch to feel a tingle on his skin and stare at him. Hosea made sure the couple footsteps he took would send a loud echo through the cramped cell, before pressing his back against the opposite corner, shoulder hunched and fingers clutched tight around his biceps. His eyes twinkled in Dutch’s direction, and he gave a single nod that spoke as clearly as words could have. _Not now. Wait for the right moment._ His expression then turned into a fierce scowl, and Dutch repressed a chuckle of delight before following his lead.

And so wait they did.

They pointedly ignored Carmichael’s next taunt as his butt landed on his squeaking chair which he mistook for a throne. Dutch entertained the hope that it would yield under his weight and the precarious equilibrium Carmichael was putting it through as he propped his ill-booted feet on his desk.

However, the opportunity they were waiting for arose before such a fortunate event came to pass, as well as the second reason why this evasion was definitely bound to turn into a personal matter.

It must have been around noon when the match they needed to light up the fuse of their escape plan presented itself on the sheriff’s doorstep, scrawny like a birch tree and filthy like the sole of an old farmer’s boot. The child wore a grey shirt cut too big for him that hung loosely over his shoulder and around his hips as a result. Half of it looked like it had nested a colony of moths, and the other half scarcely looked better, with the seams so worn out they were coming apart. He had no pair of suspenders to keep the shirt from slipping over the bawl of his bony shoulder. Dirty reddish hair was falling on his drooping eyelids, making him look as if he was two steps from falling asleep. The kid couldn’t have been older than ten or eleven, and his voice still rang with the high pitch of childhood.

“Hi there, Sheriff,” the kid said.

Whoever were the townsfolk Carmichael seemed inclined to welcome in his humble abode to have a chat with, this kid clearly wasn’t one on them.

“Whatcha want?” the sheriff muttered.

“My pop wanted me to ask you about these fellas you have in jail. My pop said he helped you find these criminals so he should get some money for his help. He’s the one who recognized them on them posters, sir.”

Dutch and Hosea’s eyes met as they recalled their unexpected if somewhat calm arrest by an incompetent sheriff that had looked them in the eye at least three times in town over the past weeks and had shown not even a spark of recognition. Hosea shrugged at him. Here was to the grand mystery of Sheriff Clinton Carmichael’s sudden sleuthing awakening.

Carmichael didn’t move from his desk, preferring to glower at his tin star. “Get lost, kid. I don’t owe nothing to you or you pa.”

The kid chewed on his bottom lip for a second as his hands clenched and unclenched. “My pop told me he should get money and I had to ask you,” he said again, obviously at a loss before the sheriff’s refusal. “He also said to remind you that I helped you two months ago with those men at the saloon. Told me it was the right thing to do and that there were no reasons for me gettin’ no reward for it. Told me the Lord always rewards the people who do the right thing.”

Even from the distance of his holding cell, Dutch was starting to have a rather clear picture of the man’s stance on good deeds and moral religion. The kid's words would fall on deaf ears at best and get him a whipping at worst.

The somber drawl in the sheriff’s voice left no doubt as to his consideration for the child and his father. “And where is he, your pop? Drinkin’ at that same saloon, here’s my thinkin’. Go away, kid, and ask him if he can give you another shirt. If he got anything to ask, he should come himself.”

A flush crept under the filth covering the boy’s cheeks. “My pop is a good man, Sheriff! He don’t drink. Didn’t have no drop since Uncle Tommy died. He’s been takin’ good care of me and Sophia, and we’re helpin’ him like we can. He’s tryin’! Ain’t his or our fault if the ground ain’t no good and he can’t buy us new clothes.”

Still, the sheriff showed no intention to get off his chair and satisfy the child’s request. He merely laughed at the prospect of granting it. “You and your pop are no bounty hunters. You did your civic duty and that’s it. Now get lost, I ain’t givin’ you any money.”

The child’s gaze shimmered with the hesitation that always preceded either grief or fury in the eyes of the young. The latter won the fight. “I helped you, why aren’t you helpin’ us? You didn’t even recognize ‘em, my pop did! You’re a mean bastard! Even the whores say so when you’re done with ‘em!”

That was apparently the last wrong thing to say. The sheriff’s fragile patience snapped, and his legs planted themselves on the ground and arched with a contained spring as he glared at the kid. “What did you say to me, _boy_? Come here, I’ll show you where you and your dad can put that money! I caught them, you hear? _Me!_ And it ain’t my problem if you or your sister or stupid father are left to walk around naked next winter! I’ll kick your ass back into that saloon if you say one more word!”

Dutch stared as both kid and sheriff bolted outside. The boy’s fearful yelps were matched by Carmichael’s furious threats and panting as a cloud of ocher dust rose in the opening of the door.

_Oh, this whole thing was getting real personal._

“I truly hate this guy,” he said, his nose wrinkling with aversion.

“What a miserable little, little man,” Hosea agreed, detaching his back from the wall to stretch it. “The kind who’ll bask in whatever small power they’re given and will use it at every turn to raise themselves up.” The hazel of his eyes harbored a shadow as he looked back at the front door. “He’s a parasite.”

“He’ll get a bullet soon enough if he keeps openin’ his mouth so big in the future and I won’t cry over it,” Dutch mused as he replayed every word of the conversation that had just unfolded before them. His blood shot through his veins with a new surge of anger. “I just might pull the trigger if he hurts that kid.”

“Can’t say I find the image unpleasant, but we already have a high enough bounty on our head in the area without a second murder to add to the list. But you might still like what I have in mind.”

The impish note was impossible to miss in his partner’s voice, and he heard Hosea’s smile before even seeing it. “Oh, here is the Hosea I love,” he grinned. “So what did you have in mind, Old Girl?”

Hosea responded with a wink and proceeded to roll up his sleeves.

Dutch’s grin grew even wider. “ _Ah_. I knew you’d end up being fond of the brawl scheme,” he beamed at Hosea while unbuttoning his cuffs.

“It’s efficient. And it has its merits,” Hosea conceded, his fingers now busy with the unknotting of his neckerchief. “One of them bein’ me having the opportunity to get back at you for all the bullshit you put me through at least every four days.”

“Come on, don’t be a spoilsport now, Hosea. I’m pretty mild on weekends,” he pointed out, which earned him a shove of the elbow.

“Don’t push your luck,” Hosea warned. He carefully folded his red ascot before tugging it in the back pocket of his jeans. His hands then moved back to his neck as he unfastened two buttons of his shirt to expose his neck. Against his own best efforts, Dutch’s eyes naturally drifted to the soft curve of his collarbone. He tried to hide the fact he’s been staring by swiftly looking down at the bottom of the brick wall. He realized too late that his hand was resting idly on his now uncovered elbow when Hosea closed the distance between them and started working on the buttons of his collar. “So, how do you want to do this?” Hosea asked.

A jolt of electricity dashed through Dutch’s brain, and he swore the air inside his chest had just gotten warmer, like water left on the fire. He wondered if only he was privy to the sensation or if Hosea felt it as he undid the button right above the notch of his clavicles.

Hosea raised a single eyebrow at him as it took him one second too long to make sense of the question. “The fight, you mean?”

“Obviously,” Hosea deadpanned.

Dutch made a conscious effort not to clear his throat as he replied, “I win, you lose.”

Hosea’s second eyebrow joined its twin, his lids falling ever so slightly over his eyes in unimpressed annoyance. “You already won the last brawl.”

“Why are you asking me if you’re gonna grump about my choice?” Dutch inquired, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Because I was hoping for some indulging leadership on your part for once,” Hosea retorted in a voice that betrayed his own indulgence. “And here I stand, sorely disappointed,” he added, giving Dutch a tap on the cheek. “What if I ask you nicely?”

Dutch leaned his face closer to Hosea’s until their foreheads almost touched.

“Guess it depends,” Dutch pretended to ponder. “Will you be nice if I accept?”

“Not in the least,” Hosea answered.

“Well, then. Deal, Mister Matthews.”

Hosea smiled and nudged Dutch’s forehead with his.

The increasing sound of Carmichael’s now-familiar ranting reached their ears, accompanied by the sound of boots grinding against dirt.

“Same as usual?” Hosea asked, putting his hands on Dutch’s shoulders, the tendons of his wrists bracing themselves for the upcoming act, ready to dig his fingers into his red shirt.

“Same as usual,” Dutch nodded as he grasped Hosea’s shoulder in one hand and fisted his collar with the other. “We get him when the moment is right. Kicks allowed, but no more than two _real_ blows to the face.”

“Vain that we are,” Hosea smiled. His gaze moved upwards. “Wait.” His fingers released Dutch’s shoulders to plunge into his hair, carding through the carefully applied pomade and tossing his black curls until some strands returned to their wild, natural state and fell over his ears and brow. “There. Now you look the part,” he bantered before letting his lips brush Dutch’s left cheekbone in a perfect reflection of that wisp of softness he had gifted him earlier in those shadows that kept them both imprisoned and, for that brief stolen moment, safe.

Dutch blinked at him. Not for the first time, he wondered if Hosea had any real idea about what power laid in the consoling stroke of his lips or the tantalizing touch of his fingers. A power that was so much more than the mere spectacle of his brilliant and petty acts of seduction or the striking merits of his good looks.

He spread his legs to secure his balance just one second before Carmichael’s silhouette carved itself back in the enlightened doorframe of his office. It was enough of a signal for Hosea to open the show.

_“That’s it! I’ve had quite enough of ya, partner!”_

Hosea had the generosity and presence of mind to shove him hard but not _too_ hard against the wall behind him, the collision helping him smother the laugh that threatened to bubble out of his chest into a groan. He bared his teeth at Hosea in a wolfish grin, using the small delay they had before the sheriff could have a clear view of their faces. Hosea’s frown was only partially feigned then. The man took the acting craft seriously, whether the audience was paying attention or not, and Dutch was late on his game.

“Oh, you’re wrong if you think _I_ ’ve had enough here, pal!” he bellowed, probably loud enough for the clerk of the general store to hear him from across the street.

Dutch pushed his left heel against the bench, using his momentum to return Hosea’s shove twofold, ramming his shoulder into Hosea’s stomach and propelling them both against the opposite wall with a roar.

Carmichael certainly had noticed something was deeply wrong with his two prisoners by now, but Dutch knew there was no need to check his reaction yet. All always came in due time, as his past evasion schemes had so often demonstrated. Thus, he kept his focus on his performing partner, circling his waist with one arm as his other hand seized his hip while Hosea folded himself over him and clawed his fingers at his shirt and belt.

“Months followin’ you and helpin’ you out, and I end up locked in this jail with you only to learn that _you stole it_? You goddamn son of a bitch!” Hosea raged.

Dutch pressed himself harder against Hosea, gripping his belt in turn, careful not to knock too much air out of him as he locked them in a wrestling stance, their feet kicking the aging wooden planks and raising small puffs of dust as their bodies pushed against one another and turned around like a spinning-top.

“We wouldn’t be here in the first place if you did what you're told and shut it!” Dutch yelled into his belly.

“How about _you_ shut your trap and go get bent, you thief?”

“Thief?! You stole my food the other day!”

“And you stole my mother’s handkerchief, you giant nincompoop!” Hosea all but shrieked like a hellcat.

Dutch was happy to have his face hidden under Hosea’s chest because stifling his chortle was near impossible this time.

 _The bastard_. Making things ridiculously difficult for him on purpose just for the thrill of it.

“That explains the smell, then!” he shot back.

He suddenly felt slim fingers dive into his hair, clutching it this time, nails grazing his scalp just enough to send shivers down his neck and spine. The precarious balance of their grappling yielded under Hosea’s thrust, sending them both tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs and an exchange of blows faked with enough expertise to convince any curious observer of the authenticity of their fight—all it required was a little bit of training and some colorful vociferations punctuated by one honest kick or slap here and there, which they distributed with the prudence their mutual trust naturally entailed.

“Hey! Cut it out, you two! _Now!_ ”

Dutch was only vaguely aware of the sheriff’s interjection. He was now on his back, knees bent under Hosea’s stomach, one foot finding itself pressed against his thigh while his hand fisted the front of his partner’s shirt, inadvertently bringing them closer in his attempt to slow down his fall. Hosea’s breathing was as audible as it was palpable against his skin. Now standing on all fours above him, Hosea sure kept up the acting, but the hazel of his eyes seemed to brighten in the dimness of the holding cell. The hand in Dutch’s hair drifted towards the nape of his neck as Hosea released the pressure of his grasp and both of them pushed and contorted themselves in a torrent of growls and biting insults, rolling themselves in the dirt as each tried to take the advantage in a mock-fight they already knew the outcome of.

“Gettin’ tired yet?” Dutch growled when he found himself on top, half-crouched above Hosea, and ready to spring to stand at his full height.

Hosea had other plans, however. Dutch almost bit his tongue when his partner’s leg knocked his left shin in a swift sweeping motion, tripping Dutch up and making him fall flat on his body. Their chest and hips collided in a chorus of graceless grunts. Dutch’s face wedged in the hollow of Hosea’s neck, while the older man’s nose pressed itself against his temple.

“You _wish_.”

His panting was hot and loud against Dutch’s ear. All of a sudden, the cell felt too small as he registered the warmth of Hosea’s thighs framing his waist. The jolt that had flashed through his brain earlier returned, sizzling down his throat and settling somewhere deep in his gut.

“That all you got?”

Dutch knew how to recognize Hosea’s indirect reprimands, from the subtle inflection of his tone to the abrupt and harsher-than-necessary grip on his shoulders. His thumb dug into Dutch’s skin, right over his collarbone. Another grunt was building inside Dutch’s chest, soon to be drowned in the shuffling of their clothes, but he didn’t quite know how much pretense fueled his breathing this time, or how much control he actually had left on his lungs.

He half-heartedly shot his knee into Hosea’s ribs in an attempt to kick his focus back into the circuit of their little performance and free himself from Hosea’s hold. Still, the cell felt hotter than it had been not five minutes prior. He was sweating, his breath coming out quick and uneven. And as he straightened himself up over his partner’s body, all but sitting back on his stomach, Dutch felt an ardent aversion pool in his core at the mere idea of stretching the distance between them.

And when he finally looked down, Hosea was... smiling.

Nothing like the grin that would occasionally grace his lips like he was the cat who’d gotten the milk, or even the smaller, softer curve that seemed able to reach his irises when he looked at Dutch in those quiet moments that belonged only to them and made Dutch feel like he’d been offered a gift that he’d done nothing to deserve and still wouldn’t deserve in a century. Like so many beautiful things about Hosea, it was both subtle and plain to see, so profoundly engraved in his body and perhaps even his soul that, while any eye might perceive the discrete shifts in his expressions and the elegance in the simplest of his movements, it would be left confounded as to how to read them, like a newborn confronted to a wall of hieroglyphs. The _loving eye_ , however, would catch all the intricacies of his demeanor, and understand them for the wordless language that they were, a language that cared less about forcing thoughts into word-shaped boxes than letting them be carried by the winds of instinct.

It was a smile meant to be invisible to the world and which only Dutch could see. A secret smile he knew to be _his_ and his alone.

Hosea Matthews, currently lying under him, with every muscle taut and prepared to deliver the next fake blow, was looking at him like this century’s Mona Lisa.

Dutch didn’t even notice his raised fist had frozen in mid-air, and if a filament of thought had been able to find its way back to the door to his consciousness at that moment, it would all have been about Hosea’s lips.

 _God_ , how he _wanted_ to kiss those lips.

That was when two things happened at once.

The first was the renewed and much _stronger_ wave of warmth that washed over him, leaving the tips of his fingers tingling with a sharp coolness as it nestled itself in his lower abdomen.

The second was the irruption of pain in his flank where Hosea’s fist connected with his waist.

The blow wasn’t as powerful as it was timely; surprise had the benefit of freeing his vocal cords in a cry that certainly didn’t do their little show any disservice. Hosea pushed himself up, locking them in a new series of chaotic grappling and wrestling as they both stood on their knees. Meanwhile, the sweet fire burning in Dutch’s gut wasn’t diminishing in the least. He squeezed his eyes shut and rammed his shoulder into Hosea’s, avoiding a harsh collision with his sternum more by luck than by intent, pinning his upper back against the wall.

A yelp escaped Hosea’s lips. The hands of his partner closed on the first things they could grasp: his bicep and his hair, which he pulled on more harshly than all the previous times his fingers had invaded his curls. The sound and the touch had Dutch’s blood pump quicker.

“Oh, you’re gonna pay for that one!” Hosea snarled, his lips still bearing a trace of that smile that was etched in Dutch’s mind.

Dutch strained his eyes to look into Hosea’s rather than at the slope of his neck. He only partially succeeded. Heat pulsed again in his core. “Yeah? Wh—what are you gonna do about—”

His vision turned into a blur as the ground disappeared under the soles of his boots, and the air was knocked out of his chest once more as he landed hard and flat onto his back. Both his wrists were held tightly next to his head by two slender but sturdy hands, keeping him pinned to the ground as Hosea straddled his hips. A meager portion of Dutch’s mind had been aware of the progressive tightening of his pants as he came to endure the fight rather than take a part in it. But it was quite another thing to feel Hosea’s crotch press right against the undeniable bulge confined in his jeans. The heat of his arousal spread with acute sharpness into his groin at the sudden contact, and Dutch’s mouth opened in a gasp only made silent by the sight of Hosea’s expression moving from bitter ferocity to utter shock. His eyes widened to the size of a dollar coin, and while his jaw didn’t drop, his lips tensed up into a thin straight line.

Dutch had long forgotten about the plan. And for that split second, Hosea might have forgotten about it too. It was a split second… And yet Dutch felt like fifty heartbeats had assaulted his veins by the time his companion exhaled.

The distant echo of reason resonated inside his skull, trying to breach the wall of arousal that had sprung up from the hot fog of his mind, slipping frail whispers about their projects of evasion and the necessity of keeping up appearances for more than just the sake of theatrics. Yet the only clear-cut consideration which managed to pierce through this mist was the consuming urge to roll up his hips in pursuit of the feeblest of frictions.

It was fortunate, given their current situation, that the characteristic click of an opened lock and the metallic grinding of the door preceded the arrival of the origin and subject of their sham into their cell, if only by a thin margin.

Then again, thin margins had always been the crucible of their profession. All it took was a shared gleam of understanding in the bright of their eyes and the imprudent step of a clueless officer of the law.

“Come on now, you two. As entertaining as it was, you won't do me any good if you just kick the holy life outta each—”

Carmichael’s future efforts at articulate sentences were doomed to be suspended for a good part of the day after he committed the mistake of bowing forward to grasp Hosea’s shoulder. In one swift, perfectly synchronized roll of their waists and chests, the two outlaws kicked his legs under him and pulled his arms by the wrists in opposite directions. The sheriff crashed headfirst onto the floor in a loud smash, leaving his hat free to fly into the air like a discarded feather. The painful growl that erupted from his throat had not yet ceased that a more guttural sound that might have been a distorted curse echoed against the cruddy wooden boards when Dutch bent his left arm behind him and sat down on his back.

“Now, that’s better, ain’t it?” Dutch goaded, carding a hand through his hair to tame some of his locks back into shape.

“You filthy, _degenerate_ ruffi—”

“Now, now, a little bit of quiet down there, please,” Dutch chastised the sheriff with a firm pressure of his boot on his neck while casually resting an arm on his knee.

As the sheriff relented—more by physical necessity than by choice—Hosea crouched by Carmichael’s right hand, his deft fingers promptly fishing the prison’s keys out of the lawman’s grasp. “I’ll take that, thank you.”

Of course, Carmichael squirmed under Dutch’s weight at that additional offense, all to no avail. His renewed endeavor concluded in a broken yelp as Dutch drove the heel of his boot harder against the sheriff’s nape and strengthened his grip on Carmichael’s folded arm with unshakable force and dangerous precision.

In the meantime, Hosea strolled around his sprawled form like any respectable resident would around the shelves of a general store with a list of groceries in his hand. His next acquisition was the lasso hooked to Carmichael’s belt. “... and that. Thank you once more for your amiable cooperation, Sheriff.”

There was no doubt in Dutch’s mind as to the acerbic venom contained in the next sluggish curse Carmichael directed at Hosea.

“Sorry, didn’t quite catch that, Mister,” he said, a low growl eating at the edges of his words as he once again increased the pressure of his boot. He made sure the sheriff knew it wouldn’t take him much effort to snap his arm in two if the lawman pushed the luck he no longer possessed.

The insults died in Carmichael’s compressed windpipe. He was able to get two coughs out of his chest before Hosea purposefully stepped on his outstretched fingers on the ground. The shrill sound Carmichael was able to let out wasn’t too remote from that produced by the gate of his cell.

“That’s what I thought,” Hosea said, striding to the wall at the back of the prison with unfazed nonchalance.

Dutch beamed at the conman, relieved to see his elation mirrored in Hosea’s expression instead of anything akin to discomfort despite the _circumstances_ when their gazes had last met. A mere brush of the thought, however, was enough to revive the sensation of a weight straddling his hips and the scorching image of Hosea’s eyes growing twice their size. That one recollection had Dutch suspect that blood had flowed up to his ears, if that quick pulse he could feel beating in his temples was anything to go by.

Perhaps he should have been concerned about the erratic up-and-down blood rushes his system had been subjected to in the span of not even five minutes. He still felt prey to dizziness, and he knew how easy it would have been to pretend that this only had to do with the excitement of successfully pining Carmichael to the ground. But looking at Hosea’s smile seemed to be enough to make his mind spin too fast on its axis, and so he elected to focus back on their captor turned prisoner lest his glance turned into contemplation.

“Now, Sheriff… What are we gonna do with you? We obviously cannot let you tell your merry compatriots or even the dear US marshall roaming these parts about our escape the second we take a step out of your charming office now, can we? I’m sure even a mind such as yours, so dulled by its mistaken sense of self-importance, can realize that.”

“You—you maggots won’t g—get away like this. Relea—se me.”

“Obviously, we’re not gonna do that, Sheriff,” Hosea chimed in.

“You should know by now the good sheriff here needs to be explained the obvious, Hosea,” Dutch stated matter-of-factly as he unknotted Carmichael’s green neckerchief with one hand. “Otherwise he would never have found us in the first place. He needed a farmer and a kid to do his job for him, after all.” The fabric was now unbound in his grasp, but his fist kept it in a tight circle around the sheriff’s neck. Dutch removed his foot from his nape and replaced its thrall with a sharp tug on the ascot, bending back the sheriff’s spine until he heard a pitiful moan from the man. “And all the thanks he could give the poor man for his troubles,” Dutch hissed in his ear with contempt oozing from every word, “was to thrash his kid in the street for everyone to see. Did I get everything right here, Sheriff?”

From this twisted angle, Dutch could get a good look at the lawman’s right eye. There he saw sparks of rebellion and fury struggling against an untearable shroud of humiliation. The sight almost had him curl his upper lip. The man didn’t quite understand _yet_. Dutch made his voice even deeper. “And on top of that, I remember your skunk-ass-shaped mouth insulting my friend in a manner which I can’t and certainly _won’t_ tolerate. Do you realize exactly what sort of a position _that alone_ puts you in, Carmichael? How _personal_ you made this whole matter?”

It took a good ten seconds, but the sheriff’s eye eventually lost the vigor of outrage, its fleeting sparks blown out to be replaced by that more persisting glow which would sometimes make the eyes of men water when fear was slowly gnawing at their senses. A drop of sweat rolled down the man’s forehead to suspend itself to the tip of his nose while the fabric around his neck kept his Adam’s apple from bobbing despite his audible gulping.

Once dread had overtaken all other concerns inside Carmichael’s shrinking pupils, Dutch turned his scowl into a wolfish grin. “Good. _Now_ we understand each other. I just wanted to make sure we parted on good terms.”

And with that, Dutch abruptly released the sheriff’s arm and rammed his fist into the back of the man’s head, propelling his face against the hard surface of the ground. The _wham_ that resulted from the impact was as loud as it was satisfying.

“Goodnight, sweet prince,” Hosea all but snickered before turning his head to spit on the floor. “I reckon the guy genuinely thought you were gonna kill him.”

“That was the intention,” Dutch said once he was standing on his feet, readjusting his vest over his waist.

“He didn’t piss his pants, though. A shame.”

Dutch stared down at the unconscious man he’d decided to punish the minute he’d stepped over that invisible line that separated ordinary men just trying to make their way into a world bent on pitting them against one another and the trash who preferred to trample on its brethren above all else. He stared long and quietly until the vision of the unmoving sheriff was replaced by that of a raggedy kid pleading on behalf of his father. A frown creased his brow before fading away completely as the idea imposed itself to his mind, devilishly delectable and appropriate.

“Maybe it’s not, actually,” he said, glancing back at Hosea with keen mischief.

Hosea raised an eyebrow at him. “That’s your look when you got one of those crazy ideas,” he said before redirecting his gaze a bit too suddenly towards the prowling form on the ground.

Dutch took a step back toward him, feeling again that need to get closer and bump their shoulders together. He refrained.

“You’ll like this one”, he replied, holding on to his own smile like a lifebuoy. “How about we give our good friend the sheriff a lesson by doing what we do best?” he asked, lifting his right hand to draw Hosea’s attention to the neckerchief it was still holding.

“Meaning?”

“Redistributing riches.”

By way of an explanation, Dutch triumphantly pinched the fabric between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and slowly pulled on it until it completely slipped out of his fist.

Hosea’s eyes lit up when Dutch’s plan became clear. Surprise turned into acidic impishness in his irises. “Oh, you _wicked_ you. Public humiliation, is it?”

“You don’t approve?” Dutch asked, taking a step closer to the conman before the ghost of his still enduring embarrassment could descend upon him again and stop him.

“I very much approve,” Hosea answered with that sharp and enthusiastic high pitch of his. He then closed the distance between them after the briefest of pauses, brushing Dutch’s elbows with his before molding his palm against the back of his hand. “And that’s okay.” His voice had suddenly shifted from that of a trickster to that of a lover.

“I know it’s okay, that’s my idea,” Dutch almost faltered, looking down at their joined hands instead of Hosea’s face. The thumping was back in his temples and his hands were sweatier than they should have been despite the ambient heat at the back of the sheriff’s office.

“ _No_ ,” Hosea sighed with intent as he cupped Dutch’s neck to drag his eyes back to him. Only when Dutch’s eyes were fixed on his and accepted Hosea’s vulnerability as the key to open the gate guarding his own did the conman lean forward and seal their lips together. The kiss was chaste but no less significant. When they parted, Hosea bored his gaze into the brown of Dutch’s eyes. “ _That_ ,” he said, his other hand rising to rest against Dutch’s stomach, “is okay.”

He felt a tremor shake his entire frame, but the awkwardness that had viciously wrapped itself around Dutch’s arms and legs like barbed wire seemed to melt all at once under Hosea’s touch and reinsurance. His hand found his partner’s waist before he knew it, would have trembled on their way if they’d had the time, he realized.

“You… _You_ ’re okay? With _this?_ ” he inquired, his lips only an inch away from his.

“With all my heart,” Hosea breathed, squeezing his hand. “You?”

Dutch had always borne infinite love for words, for their intricacies, for the numerous promises and opportunities sewed in the twists and turns he so loved to weave in his tirades. He forsook them all for Hosea’s lips.

He dived for a second kiss, crashing his mouth against Hosea’s, letting his tongue speak his answer in its inviting warmth. He inhaled sharply when Hosea responded after a short bout of surprised giggling. His fingers left the side of Dutch’s neck to find the hair right at the base of his nape. There was an underlying strain in their melded breathing, a tension born out of ecstatic relief and bliss that soon poured more heat into his abdomen and sent shivers down his spine, leaving his skin to feel hot and cold in turn.

When Hosea pulled back, Dutch’s mouth chased after him, missing its mark by less than an inch as it kissed the corner of his lips. His grip tightened on his partner’s hip when Hosea smothered a laugh and gently pushed his head aside. Dutch nestled his nose in the hollow of his neck instead, remaining still to take in that smell of wilderness that never seemed to desert Hosea’s skin, now blessedly offered to him by a collar still open wide.

“Slow down, Big Cat,” Hosea chuckled, bringing his hand back down to Dutch’s jaw in an almost reluctant attempt to draw them apart. “We must get out of here first… And,” he added pointedly with no small amount of teasing, “your saddle won’t be too kind on you if you keep going on like this… Nor mine, for that matter.”

Dutch’s snickered against his neck, using the joke as a lifeline that would guide him back to some _semblance_ of focus. He breathed in against Hosea’s skin once, twice, thrice, each intake steadier than the previous, until the whine stuck in his throat faded and the fire feeding on his gut got tamed enough for him to use the euphoria running through his nerves as the fuel he needed.

He jolted back with a grin plastered on his face, seizing Hosea’s shoulders with both hands in one swift movement, and planted one last brief kiss on the man’s parted lips before stepping back. A booming laugh erupted from his chest as he took in Hosea’s slightly dumbfounded expression before his sudden outburst.

“Come along, then, my good friend. Onward to these new shores! Freedom awaits!” he yawped, spreading his arms wide open.

Hosea may have shaken his head, but it did little to prevent a smile from gracing his features.

“So, o Captain, my Captain,” he beamed, swinging the unbound end of the sheriff’s lasso like a sling. “You take the shirt, I take the pants?”

They took all that and then some more. When they were done five minutes later, nothing was left on the Sheriff save his lasso—bound around both his wrists and ankles in a rather methodical string of knots, courtesy of Hosea’s—and his neckerchief tied around his mouth. Dutch didn’t miss the opportunity to thank the still unresponsive sheriff for his integral cooperation during the tedious process.

“Leave him his hat,” he told Hosea as he finally stepped out of the cell, arms full with Carmichael’s clothes, belt, and boots. “To show him we haven’t completely lost our humanity yet. And that I harbor no hard feelings for my own hat.”

After Hosea dutifully accomplished his task by simply letting the hat fall from his hand down to the lawman’s exposed buttocks—‘ _he can’t wear it while lying face down, anyway_ ’— the two outlaws strode outside the office with the ease and confidence of two law-abiding citizens freshly deputized, heading straight for the horse posts where the sheriff’s subordinates had kindly taken their steeds when they got captured. The street was all but deserted save for the local drunk glancing at them with glassy eyes and a drooling mouth.

Empress’s ears twitched in his direction as soon as she caught sight of him and offered him the tilt of a whinny before Dutch could even get to her.

“Hello, my lady,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her muzzle before she bobbed her head towards his chest. “Yeah, didn’t think I’d be gone for long now, did you?”

“What are you gonna do with all these clothes?” Hosea asked once they were both seated in their saddles.

Dutch didn’t answer. The only clue he granted Hosea was a smile and a click of the tongue as he led Empress into a trot in the direction that the kid had taken in his attempt to flee Carmichael’s ire. He jerked his head from left to right, eyes searching for the would-be recipient of his load. When they eventually found their target nestled in some narrow alley—if the tight space between the saloon and the dentist’s practice could even be called that—Dutch let out a victorious ‘ _hah!’_ and pulled Empress to a stop.

The kid was sitting on the ground, face dry but unmistakably red on the cheeks despite the filth covering them, sniffling and scowling at the dirt like it was responsible for his woes instead of that moron of a sheriff.

“Hey there, son,” Dutch greeted, his voice still vibrating with that unbound enthusiasm but carrying a softer note. “Whatcha doing down here? Where’s your Pa?”

The kid eyed Dutch with all the wariness a tall stranger like him was due, but his gaze seemed devoid of recognition at first. His cautious look didn’t quite turn into a glare as he tried to win back some of that juvenile insolence and bravery, his mortification still readable on his features and the way his arms were wrapped around his bended knees. “I’m not doin’ anything. What d’you want with my pop?”

“Nothing. At least, not directly. In fact, you might just be the one I need, son. Would you care to help a fella out?”

The knit of the kid’s brows unwound only to settle back, shifting from distrust to puzzlement. He brought his sleeve up to wipe his nose, but his arm froze against his face when his look slid towards Hosea, then back to Dutch, clear realization lighting up in his eyes.

“You… You’re the two men.”

Dutch felt Hosea stir on his saddle next to him, no doubt spying all the potential way-outs should the kid decide to call on the law or any zealous citizen who might have felt inclined to shoot two criminals should the sheriff be indisposed. Dutch, for his part, beamed at the child.

“Perhaps. And we’re on our way out, don’t worry. We mean no harm to you or this town. See, the sheriff was kind enough to… commit a mistake, let us say. He’s fine, or at least he will be, although I wasn’t too pleased with the way he treated you. Which brings me to _this_.” He lifted the arm around which he’d wrapped the sheriff’s belongings. “See, I have no use for these clothes. Or even that fine pair of boots,” he added, exhibiting said pair he held in his other hand. “My friend and I are travelers, we can’t burden ourselves with unnecessary items. But I recall I heard about some people out there, some honest man and his family perhaps, who were struggling to procure good clothes despite all their hard work. Oh, I know it doesn’t amount to much, but between you and me,” Dutch continued in a conspiratorial tone, “I didn’t think they fit the sheriff very well. Figured these fine clothes would do much better service to people who deserve them. And the boots and belt are nice enough, you could get a decent price for them. So what d’you say, kid? Would you help me get rid of those?”

The kid kept staring at him, eyes widening under the hood of his lids until a wild kind of earnestness crept into his expression. He slowly lowered his arm, as if scared the wrong gesture could earn him the outlaw's displeasure. “I got no money, sir,” he sputtered.

“That’s good because I don’t want any,” Dutch grinned, spreading his arms open.

“If you’re so determined about payment, just say you never saw a soul leave the town and we’re quits, kid,” Hosea quipped at the boy.

“W—what about the sheriff?” he stammered. “What if he sees those and recognizes them?”

“Just dirty them up a little. Nobody will notice. Especially not Sheriff Carmichael,” Hosea replied with a wink.

The kid looked at each of them in turn, his mouth opening and closing twice in the span of two seconds. Finally, he nodded and pushed himself to his feet. He raised his arms in front of him, ready to catch the load of fabric and leather in the fold of his elbows. Dutch dropped his burden onto the kid’s arms and let the pair of boots fall right by his feet. The kid kept staring at this unexpected loot as if it were the physical manifestation of an arithmetic problem. Then, once his mind seemed to have stumbled on the conclusion that the how or why didn’t matter to him, his expression shifted to reveal that sort of devilish glee that petty acts of retribution could so easily prompt.

“Thank you, sirs!” he exclaimed, his grin wide under his now alert eyes.

Dutch brought two fingers to his forehead in a parting salute. “See you along, kiddo.”

He commanded Empress into a gallop before the kid had the time to salute back. Behind him, Hosea’s laugh rose through the air like a flock of birds spreading above the peaks of trees, making Dutch look behind his shoulder with what he knew to be one of his most childish grins.

“Spending your theatrics on children, now?” the conman teased him as Diamond Ace closed the distance between Empress and him.

“My theatrics are for the whole world to enjoy,” he beamed, spreading out his right arm as if to encompass and absorb the whole universe in his hold.

Hosea laughed some more, perhaps louder than Dutch had heard him for the past few months, the sound sharp like a carving knife sinking into softwood and yet melodious like the stream flicking against ageless rocks in the heart of the meadow.

“Your appetite is boundless.”

The jibe could just as well have been the sung praise from muses, for Hosea was looking at him with the fierce inquisitiveness of chance encounters and the awe-inspiring confidence of lifelong companionships, radiating light rather than reflecting it, as if his soul was reaching out… as if it had found something in Dutch countless others and he _himself_ had been blind to for all those years. It left him confused, humbled, and above all, feeling like the luckiest man alive.

Because Hosea was a spectacle. Riding his horse like the wild wind of uncharted lands, his body espousing each movement of his stallion’s gallop, skin all but glowing despite their pretend fistfight on the ground of a dirty jail cell, chest puffed with incontestable joy and the promise of more laughs to come, and an expression on his face that could capture all the cynicism of the world to reduce it to dust, and turn doubters into believers.

It took him an unknown number of seconds to realize he was laughing too.

The prosperous town of Kettering soon disappeared in the dusty trail whipped up by their horses’ hooves, and whatever calls that might have come from its inhabitants would have been drowned by the echoes of their mirth. Their cavalcade of two blazed past blissfully unaware farmers pushing their mule-drawn wagons and lone riders on the tranquil roads of Ohio before Dutch veered their race toward the West, pushing them through tall grass until they reached a grove.

“Got a place in mind?” Hosea called after Dutch had Empress quicken her pace with an eager ‘ _hyah!_ ’

Dutch grinned back at him above his shoulder.

Hosea looked at him, took the implicit invitation to throw a guess at him. “That hidden river bend you wanted us to use as camp initially?”

“Figured it would be perfect,” Dutch said.

His heart jolted slightly in his chest. It would be a discreet enough place for them to lie low and gather their wits until they could escape the county first thing in the morning, but it wasn’t the reason that was occupying the forefront of Dutch’s mind: the place was beautiful. Serene. A place worth remembering.

“If you have another idea?” he added, concealing that frustrating childlike bashfulness he felt gnawing at his thoughts in the deep of his voice.

Hosea simply nodded, his smile unfaltering. “Lead the way.”

The place Dutch had in mind was a good forty-minute ride away. When they finally reached that escarpment hiding the secluded river curve whose southern bank was concealed in the shadow of an eroded rock wall, Dutch couldn’t quite tell if the past hour had felt like two or if it had passed in the blink of an eye. Both his body and mind had settled back in a more tranquil state as his focus had shifted to the necessity of finding a temporary hideout, but there was no quelling the euphoria vibrating in his muscles or the skin-pricking awareness of Hosea’s own joy behind him. A stubborn kind of restlessness had taken over him inside this cell, and neither self-consciousness nor pressing practical matters had managed to fully quiet it down. If anything else, their shared cheerfulness at feeling freer than they’d ever felt was like a renewed breeze blowing on the subdued fire inside him, keeping it alive just enough to stroke the edge of his consciousness as it waited for inevitable rekindling.

Their horses had to tread carefully through bushes planted on a sharply declining slope before they could reach a negotiable path leading them down to the river in a narrow hairpin bend that could be so easily missed by the inattentive rider. The ground was wet and loose, easily accepting of the prints of horseshoes as Dutch led them to the drier shelter provided by a recess in the rock wall towering above the riverbed. It could have been a cave, had enough centuries flown by since the birth of that gentle stream, but as it were, the hollow was only deep enough to shelter and hide a small party, and the tall grass draping the rich soil around it was the nest of various bunches of flowers—God forbid he ever hid into some nasty pit of a cave.

As he climbed down from his saddle, he recognized the small purple spots of burdock roots, the color of their petals made all the more vibrant by the generous zenith illuminating the place. Despite the almost childlike anticipation he could still feel in his very joints, he could not help letting his gaze linger on the bunch of tall lance-shaped flowers gathered in a creamy white cloud of blossoms right next to the hollow’s entrance. Their stems were reaching for the sky like a pale gravity-defying curtain that rose as high a short man would. Under the blessing of the sunlight, the white petals almost glistened like the stream that nourished the soil harboring their roots.

“We should have picked this spot in the first place.”

Hosea’s contemplating tone had been quieter than the lapping of the river.

Dutch looked at him. He was still sitting on his saddle, his back effortlessly erect as if they hadn’t blazed across miles of prairie for a full hour like the two fugitives that they were.

Dutch shrugged. “The other spot was safer.”

“ _And yet…_ ”

He couldn’t help mirroring Hosea’s grin as the conman leaned on the horn of his saddle.

“And yet.”

Hosea’s lips fell back over his teeth, but his smile remained, shallow dimples framing its curve like two impish commas. Dutch wasn’t certain the lump that suddenly lunged up in his throat wasn’t his own heart.

He realized only too late that he’d been staring again when Hosea asked with a tilt of his head, “I guess the place could use a couple of blankets, though.”

He then had the courtesy to look away and dismount right as Dutch shook some semblance of composure back into him, jumping on the occasion to busy his hands with _something_ as he untied covers and bedroll from Empress’s back.

His skin tingled as the specter of a shiver ran down his spine while he discarded his bedroll to the side and hastily unrolled two blankets on the thin carpet of small grass that laid untouched in the shadow of the naturally carved rock face. The ripple of the river and the chirping of birds receded behind the thump of his heartbeat that was invading his ears like the song of war drums as the now familiar warmth returned in the deep of his belly. His hands clenched into fists once, then relaxed before he turned around.

Hosea was standing by the tall cluster of white flowers, gently lifting the star-shaped blossoms with the tips of his fingers, looking down at them with a reverence Dutch had never seen painted on the man’s face, his smile made subtler by the nostalgia pervading his words:

“Bunchflowers,” he said, noticing Dutch’s gaze without looking away from the plants. “There was a bunch of them right next to my mother’s house. They bloomed each year in June without a fault. She took care of them. She said that a sprout grew each time a pure soul left this world or each time a soul was saved by true love. Didn’t get what she meant by that, back then.”

He looked up at Dutch, and his eyes were gleaming under the shadow of his hat like two newborn stars. Their silvery hazel harbored the light of life-altering epiphanies and a determination that seemed only matched by this unfathomable affection that any person should treasure above all the cold gold of this earth.

Dutch knew he did.

“They’re beautiful,” he breathed, his voice close to a whisper.

He took a couple of steps forward, slipping out of the shadows to let the heat of the sun hit his face and shoulders. His lungs seemed both too big and too small, never satisfied with whatever amount of air he inhaled. He could feel his hair stand on his neck as they kept staring at each other. Hosea fully turned his body toward him but didn’t step forward. His eyes were boring into Dutch’s, still blazing with that fondness he wasn’t quite sure he deserved and another kind of glow that fully revived the fire nested in his gut, making it expand inside his body in a tangle of fiery tendrils.

He was waiting, Dutch realized. Neither hesitant nor reluctant.

Only _waiting_ , like a door left ajar by a steady hand, welcoming but unmoving, ready to be pushed open only if a second hand felt safe enough to chase the former, to seize it and cradle it in the comfort of interlaced fingers and joined heartbeats. An invitation whose outcomes were written in the ink of freedom, offering him a _choice_.

Offering him his own vulnerability like it was the most precious gift in the world, and not a constraint to be ashamed or resentful of.

There was a gust of wind, and the distance between them was closed as Dutch took the step, abruptly swept the hat off Hosea’s head with the back of his hand, and crashed their lips together. Hosea’s hands immediately seized his collar, as if they’d been kept away from it for far too long, drawing him closer if that even was possible. His mouth welcomed Dutch’s tongue with a sound he had never heard from the man, a sharp exhale of relief and pleasure that ignited the marrow inside Dutch’s bones, turning the shivers that had washed over him the moment their lips had met into sparks threatening to make him twitch and tremble like a fragile shrub caught in the wind of its first spring. His hands were clasped around Hosea’s head, fingers sinking into pale blond hair behind his ears as he shoved his body against his, pushing him through the stems of bunchflowers until his back was against the rock wall. The whine that escaped Dutch’s throat could hardly be muffled by the dance of Hosea’s lips and tongue.

The heat of their stomachs now pressed against one another sent a jolt directly to his crotch, and he could feel himself stir again in the confines of his pants. His left leg slid between Hosea’s thighs of its own volition, shifting his weight and setting his hips flush against Hosea’s. His teeth nibbled at Hosea’s bottom lip as a truly audible moan fled off his chest when he felt Hosea’s hardening length rub against the line of his cock behind the barrier of their jeans. He shoved his hips a second time, _harder_ , his face nuzzling against Hosea’s cheek, blushing under the stroking of his partner’s loud and raspy exhalations and the urge burning inside his core as he sought more of that sweet friction. A hand glided to cup the curve of his ass as another gently slid to his neck, its fingers firm with the certainty offered by experience while its thumb started rubbing smooth circles on his skin in almost shivery devotion. Dutch’s whole body trembled, and he drowned his shaky breathing into another heated kiss, relishing the sensations of the slipping of their wetted lips and the clashing of their teeth.

He’d kissed people before. He’d kissed _women_ , and had even worn that experience like a badge of pride, like so many other young men dwindling on the brink of adulthood and thinking it an undiscovered country.

He’d never kissed or had been kissed the way he and Hosea were kissing right now.

And Hosea was the first _man_ whose lips he had chased.

It was when that particular thought slithered through his slowly scrambling mind that Hosea decided to roll his hips against his. Where Dutch had shoved his body against his like a stone falls to the earth under the command of gravity, Hosea rocked against him with the resilience of the ocean, his abs and hips molding against Dutch’s front in steady waves, anchoring themselves to his core as they pushed and withdrew and then _pushed_ again.

Dutch’s blood beat hard in his temples and his groin. His hand closed on Hosea’s hip to obtain better leverage as he kept chasing the sensation pulsing in his cock. He could feel the man’s hipbone through his clothes, could sense the iron of his abs pressing against his, the lean but robust muscles of his arms as his fingers squeezed around his ass and neck. The hand petting his throat soon drifted further down to stroke the mount of his collarbone, its fingers sliding under his shirt as its palm stroke the dark hair spreading over his chest.

“Hosea…”

His voice was but a trembling mutter as both his hands settled on the man’s hips, digging into his shirt and belt as his thoughts struggled to reassemble themselves in his mind.

Hosea had been the first man he’d kissed… but above all, Hosea was the first person he wanted to _receive everything from_ and _give everything to_.

The thought shook him, left him dazed with a mixture of exaltation and dread that only nurtured those dangerous flames he was offering himself to.

Hosea exhaled loudly and then abandoned his mouth for his neck. The touch of his lips, wet and _hot_ and yet still hovering, almost shy in the way they grazed his pulse point, combined with the ongoing dance of their hips, dragged another low whine from him.

“ _Hosea_ …” he rasped again, louder, his fingers clinging so tight to the man’s sides they might leave marks. “I…”

His words constricted onto themselves inside his throat, bound into a tight knot by the thread of this craving desire he felt on every inch of his skin, in every beat of his heart and the painful hardness of his cock. A desire he felt oozing out of his pores and brain and yet couldn’t express into words.

Hosea’s breath hitched over his clavicle. “Me too,” he sighed, and Dutch could have fallen to his knees from the relief and joy of loving and wanting this man who understood each of his unspoken words if he hadn’t felt bound to his hips by the intoxicating pleasure of friction.

Hosea pulled back from his neck and cupped his face with both his hands.

“ _Me too_ ,” he repeated, his lips not quite closing after he said the words, his eyes plunging into Dutch’s, twinkling with the trace of a subtle yet adoring smile and offering him the treasure of his own yearning while his hips just _kept rolling_ at that perfect, steady rhythm.

A moan turned into groan flew past Dutch’s lips, coming from some unknown depth in his chest. In one quivery movement, he gripped the folds of Hosea’s shirt and yanked it out of his pants, immediately yielding to that urge to touch the man’s skin under the fabric. The trembling he felt run through Hosea’s belly as his fingers set to explore his now attainable flanks under the soft cotton and the tension of his suspenders only fueled his own shivers.

“C’mon,” Hosea whispered, gripping the lapel of his vest with his right hand, tugging on it as if his clothed erection wasn’t still rubbing against Dutch’s. “ _Come on_ ,” he huffed again, chuckling this time at Dutch’s obvious reluctance to retreat one inch away from him.

Dutch was unable to repress a deep lamenting sound as the heat of Hosea’s lean and firm body slid aside and away from his own, making him stumble forward under the irresistible pull he felt in his crotch.

He hooked two fingers into one of Hosea’s belt loops, torn between the need to keep him close on that spot, trapped between the cold hard rock and his own hardness, and the longing to follow this man wherever he wished to take him. The novelty of the feeling made his heart skip a beat as its implications dawned on Dutch with the cold and warm furiousness of a summer thunderstorm.

Since the day he’d stepped out of his childhood home, he’d never wished to follow anyone’s star but his own.

_But today…_

Their doddering steps led them to the entrance of the hollow.

_For an evening, an hour, or less… Whatever time they could steal..._

Dutch seized Hosea’s face with both hands and slammed their lips together once more in a chorus of heaving sighs that seemed keen on chasing the wild rhythm of their heartbeats.

_Maybe today…_

Taut fingers gripped his hips as Hosea’s tongue confidently explored his mouth.

 _Maybe_ just _today… he could let that man’s light outshine his own until he forgot his damn name._

A small shove pushed his shoulders and hips back, gentle enough but still purposeful. Dutch could have resisted it if he’d wanted.

He didn’t.

He let himself stumble backward and gracelessly fall into a seat on the cover he’d previously unfolded. He barely had the time to process this turn of events that those same fingers that had clung to his hips with that deceiving unshakable strength grabbed his shoulders and thrust them to the ground, pinning him there.

“Now, where were we?”

Dutch’s eyes widened as they took in the sight of Hosea’s smug and only superficially ferocious grin that could hardly dissimulate the playfulness that had conquered his gaze, his eyebrows high on his forehead and the corners of his lips twitching with obvious glee. A smile slowly stretched Dutch’s lips as they stared at each other for two solid seconds before yielding to the laugh bubbling up inside their chests.

Hosea’s slightly high-pitched wheeze only made Dutch’s torso rise and fall quicker with laughter as the conman’s forehead lowered to rest against his, letting their mirth merge in the face of their sweet ridiculousness.

“ _Good God…_ ” Dutch snorted, closing his eyes as laughter kept shaking his chest. “How should I know? You were the one who insisted on winning that brawl, remember? Mr. Stage Actor.”

“And I apparently did too good a job on ya,” Hosea chortled back.

Dutch bit down a growl of mortification that he no longer truly felt, his mind and body long gone down that road of ardent longing on which he’d found Hosea waiting for him.

Hosea quashed that growl with a kiss that was both provocative and apologetic. When their lips parted, he put enough distance between his face and Dutch’s to let his eyes roam all over his features and down to the birth of his chest.

“God, if you could see yourself. If you could have seen yourself in that cell…” he said, the wisp of his laugh still tinting each of the words that had been uttered in a quieter, deeper sigh. There was a ringing in Dutch’s ears at Hosea’s suggestion of his own arousal in that prison cell. “That okay, by the way?” Hosea asked, softer, his hands rubbing up and down on the shoulders he’d pushed to the ground as if he’d sensed that tremor that had shaken Dutch’s mind as much as it had his bones when he’d pulled that move on him.

Dutch rose his hands to Hosea’s hips, barely resisting the urge to sink his nails into the dry flesh of these lithe yet powerful flanks.

He wetted his lips with his tongue, and his voice was hoarse and dripping with unbound sincerity when he answered:

“You make it okay.”

Hosea was mute. His brow furrowed, and a strange shadow flashed in his eyes, a trembling shard of confusion and humbleness that dulled the amber of his irises, as if their previous, brighter light had been redirected inwards and Hosea hadn’t liked what he’d seen there.

Dutch’s eyebrows twitched in perplexity, and his tongue rose inside his mouth, ready to ask him what was wrong, but he refrained. Instead, he let his hands skim over Hosea’s flanks until his fingers settled between the soft reliefs of his ribs under his still buttoned-up shirt, resting there, their eagerness temporarily reined back in favor of a careful anchoring touch.

“You make it okay,” he repeated, making sure each word resonated through Hosea. “You make things _certain_.”

Hosea’s frown deepened, and Dutch’s heart quickened as he recognized his expression as one of sadness.

“You pick strange and dubious fellas to put your trust in, Dutch.”

His voice had slid to that comfortable quirky tone he resorted to either during some of their most grandiloquent performances or when he indulged in one of his jests—oftentimes directed at Dutch, the dryness of his inflated Appalachian accent drowned in that ever-growing fondness Dutch had learned to spot in Hosea’s sentences like its own form of punctuation.

That curtain of pretended amusement dropped, however, when Hosea’s voice caressed Dutch’s name— _’Dutch_ ’, not the teasing _‘Mr. van der Linde’_.

A crack in the carefully erected wall.

“Do you doubt me, _Hosea_?” he asked, his tone made light by an encouraging smile but determined, as assured as the thousands-year-old mountains.

“ _Never_.”

The response had been so immediate and incisive that Dutch’s breath locked itself in his lungs for a second.

Some of the dejection dissipated on Hosea’s features as he permitted himself one of those subtle smiles he only seemed to offer _him,_ and him alone.

“Before I met you, I was so sure the only person I would ever trust was myself,” Hosea continued. “I didn’t care. I felt fine with it, and if I ever felt the need for other people’s trust, it was to obtain pockets or chest boxes to steal from. It was a mistake on their part and a resource I could use to keep my belly full.” His right hand reached for the side of Dutch’s neck before tentatively trailing up to his hair, his slim fingers carding through the roots springing above his ear while his thumb gently rubbed over the skin of his temple. “Then you came along, you and that confounding ‘faith’ of yours,” he said, his voice barely above a murmur, “and suddenly I _wanted_ your trust for its own worth. But _my_ trust, Dutch, it’s a…”

Whatever final and condemning word had been floating in his mind to close that confession got suspended on his tongue. His fingers stopped their soothing caress as he exhaled through his nose, his gaze drifting away from Dutch’s.

“Compared to yours, I fear it ain’t worth much,” he finally said.

Dutch stared at him, eyes fixed on Hosea’s half-lidded hazel. Then, without a word, he slid out a hand from the warm space between Hosea’s skin and shirt to grab the now motionless fingers resting by his skull. He folded his fingers around Hosea’s, making sure his hold was tight enough to get the man’s attention as he dragged their joined hands to the center of his chest.

“You’re gonna listen very carefully to my question. You’re gonna listen and you’re gonna answer it,” he drawled, frowning at Hosea as the man’s eyes finally settled back on him. Once he was certain Hosea’s attention was fully on his words and not that cloud of self-hatred that had gathered inside his mind, he asked once more, each word breathed out of his chest with resolute openness: “ _Do you doubt me, Hosea?_ ”

The amber of his partner’s eyes took on a more golden shade as they widened ever so slightly and as their gaze dived into his, locking on the unspoken entanglement of all the meanings he had woven into that one question. Eventually, after an indiscernible number of seconds spent in a silence only disturbed by the flowing of the river, Hosea’s frown eased, as if washed away by an invisible tranquil stream mirroring that which was guarding this haven they’d found for themselves.

“Never,” he answered again, his thumb rubbing one small circle on the knuckle of Dutch’s thumb.

Dutch responded to the gesture by giving his hand a firm squeeze.

“Do you _trust_ me?”

“I do.”

“And do you value my trust?”

“More than anything.”

“Then by God or whatever horseshit you wanna swear on, why can’t you value yours _more_? We’re both thieves and liars, Hosea. We both killed too, unfortunately. So why are you so convinced my trust is somehow worth more than yours? Why do you trust me so if you’re so sure I shouldn’t trust you?”

And Hosea was nodding as much to Dutch as to himself, eyes closed as his mind yielded to the impulse of his heart, and his hand squeezed back above Dutch’s chest. When he opened his eyes again, the grimness was now fully gone, replaced by the gold of honesty and affection, a sight that would shame many of the self-righteous preachers and judges of this corrupted country.

“I trust you,” he sighed fondly, “because you’re _true_.”

There was no contesting in his tone, merely contemplation.

Dutch smiled, relaxing his hold on his hand. “You’re my compass. Do you see, now? _You_ make things _certain_.” He paused and took the time to breathe in, to let the sentence he was about to echo back carve itself in his body as much as in his thoughts. “I trust _you_ because you’re true.”

He’d spoken the words like one would swear an oath. An unbreakable vow that could free souls instead of shackling them, restore them to a purer, cleaner state. A beautiful contradiction they promptly sealed with a kiss that was as tender as their first, exchanged in the safety of dancing lights and shadows.

Their lips only brushed apart when Dutch’s hand freed Hosea’s to work open the remaining buttons of his shirt.

“Now…” he drawled. “ _Where were we?_ ”

His chuckle died in his throat when Hosea grabbed his wrist and pushed it back to the ground, at the same level as his head.

“You were losing a fight.”

Smugness was back on Hosea’s face, but his smile was still too tender and his grasp on Dutch’s wrist too lax for him to feel any sort of real challenge in this reply.

“Was I, now?” he asked, his hand disengaging itself to slide under a suspender and slip it off before wrapping itself around Hosea’s shoulder as its companion stroked his ribs under his shirt. He pushed his hips upwards in a rolling motion, giving back their groins the attention they sorely deserved.

He exhaled a purposefully loud sigh as his blood shot through his veins. The still quite hard bulge he could sense in Hosea’s pants was telling enough about his arousal, but the way his partner’s nostrils flared at the renewed friction was both its own treat and more oil poured onto the fire of Dutch’s boldness.

“‘Cause I reckon I’m not the only one in a precarious situation here.”

He bucked his hips once more.

Hosea remained impassible this time, but his hand locked again on Dutch’s wrist, and his voice was an octave lower than his usual pitch when he asked:

“Playing dangerous games again, are we? Careful.”

Dutch tried to roll his hips again, but it only resulted in a feeble twitch as Hosea’s weight abruptly shifted over him with just the barest contracting of his core, nailing Dutch to the ground as if that deceptively lithe body concealed the weight of an anvil in its abdomen.

“What if I don’t wanna be careful?” he nonetheless challenged.

He got a response to his challenge alright.

As soon as the question slipped out of his big mouth, his hand found itself back on the blanket, and the other was soon subjected to the same fate, snatched away from Hosea’s skin by an iron grasp closing around his forearm. Dutch’s reflex glance was enough to catch a glimpse of the taut cords of Hosea’s wrist, the tension of the graceful yet perfectly controlled muscles and tendons as they kept his arm pinned where it was. When his eyes looked back up, there was a defiant, wolfish smile on Hosea’s face.

“What if I ask you _nicely?_ ”

Of course, it wasn’t the first time Dutch had heard those words come out of Hosea’s mouth. But right here, right now, _in that voice_ , with _that smile_ , with _that body_ trapping his under its weight and scorching heat, making the idea of willingly relinquishing all power and control not only acceptable but desirable, they sounded like a world of new meanings carved in the fabric of the unknown, a _living, breathing_ universe capable of swallowing him whole and taking him apart, piece by piece, and spitting him out once his mind had been reduced to a haze of unconsciousness.

He had no words to answer Hosea’s taunting, and given the way the curve of the man’s lips stretched a bit wider on his face, this was the exact outcome he’d hoped for.

With the hold of his hips and hands still unshakeable, Hosea unhurriedly leaned forward until his mouth hovered but an inch over Dutch’s. He lingered there, unmoved by Dutch’s gasp at that tantalizing proximity, letting the warmth of his breathing stroke that open and hopeful mouth in the stead of his lips. Dutch’s neck strained to close the distance between them, his lips seeking and pleading, but Hosea’s head moved back in perfect synchronicity, keeping his lips _so close_ yet out of reach and rewarding Dutch’s efforts only with the soft burn of frustration. Dutch’s heart lurched when Hosea seemed to lean forward again with the intent to finally close the gap between them, only to drop in his chest when he retreated once more.

“What if I ask you _like this?_ ”

The murmur cascaded over Dutch’s skin, penetrating him in a current of shivers that ran inside him like liquid electricity.

Hosea’s lips finally came to him, their pulp brushing his for only the briefest of seconds before leaving him with the ghost of a sigh for sole consolation as they glided over his jaw then over the hollow of his neck, right by his Adam’s apple, breathing louder against his skin without ever gracing it with the contact Dutch so obviously craved. His eyes snapped shut as a much more powerful wave of shudders shook his entire frame, and there was no holding back that moan he’d tried to bury in his chest under that skilled and sweet torture.

“That’s—that’s asking _nicely_ to you?” he stuttered, panting under the joint assaults of his hunger for Hosea’s lips and that spear of desire that sank painfully deep into the center of his lower abdomen.

Hosea fully leaned back at the question, the encasing warmth of his body leaving Dutch like the tide withdrew from the shore, leaving Dutch to inhale sharply at the sudden loss and the shift of pressure over his crotch.

Whatever expression he displayed, it must have been very entertaining, for Hosea’s chuckle resonated like a fistful of pennies spilling onto the ground.

“ _Hosea…_ ” he whined.

His complaint only made Hosea chuckle louder. Despite his current predicament, the rich and affectionate sound made the corners of Dutch’s lips twitch upward.

“Oh, my good man,” Hosea all but purred, “I can be even _nicer_ than that.”

Dutch was only starting to realize what kind of proportionate response his dares could expose him to. He had stepped into a giant honey pot and was now knee-deep in it.

It was nothing new that Hosea had both the wits and talents—and quite the unconfessed penchant for blood-pumping excitement too—to surprise him and raise his bids when Dutch was the one usually leading them on crazy-merry chases and other audacious and reason-defying schemes. But as Dutch had come to learn with every kiss blissfully exchanged, there were many other ‘talents’ he’d yet to see the man exert.

And if Dutch was one thing, it was incapable of leaving a potential undisclosed without poking it with a stick and a toothy grin, prudence be damned to eternity.

“Show me.”

Hosea arched an eyebrow at the almost authoritative request, but even this show of surprise and interest wasn’t enough to rub out that delicate and trembling golden glow from his irises.

“Oh? Changed your mind about who gets to suffer the consequences of his defeat?”

“What if I did?” Dutch inquired.

The sound Hosea made resembled that click of the tongue he would make in moments of genuine or faked annoyance, but there was a softer edge to that one, like it had been eroded by some contained emotion that threatened to spill out at the next imprudence.

“Do you even know what you want?”

“Yes. _You._ ”

And there was no playful mask of pretense left for Hosea to cling on to then, as his mouth fell open in a gasp that could have been silent had Dutch’s ears not been tuned to every scrap of sensation coming from the man like sunflowers were to the light of the sun. His eyes were two gems of polished amber, containing a gleam Dutch had never quite seen in his look, no matter how profoundly convinced he was of Hosea’s capacity for love and gentleness in a world that had so insidiously persuaded him he had none. It was raw yet refined, wild and unknown while comforting and familiar. Giving as much as it was taking.

“... Well, then,” he uttered, his breath painting Dutch’s face like a summer breeze, letting go of one of his wrists to stroke his cheek with the back of his hand. “How about that?”

Dutch glanced at his lips once, and Hosea yielded to the silent request. Their mouths welcomed each other in a patient embrace, their lips parting slowly to welcome the warmth of inquisitive tongues, relishing that suspended instant until the flow of time inevitably carried them away towards the rapids. And carried away they were, as the kiss deepened with each stroke of their tongues, their lips parting wider to suck in more air after holding their breaths for too long, opening themselves in trembling disappointment before crashing back together in loud relief, their noses pressing against each other more and more harshly as moans clawed their way up from their chests.

Dutch’s core contracted, seeking Hosea’s hips like a parched wanderer would search for water in the desert.

It was but a subtle spasm, but there was little that could fly above Hosea’s perception, and it was enough. He pulled back, exhaling loudly through his mouth, both hands firmly clasped around Dutch’s forearms.

Their eyes locked as their chests heaved for more oxygen, brown and hazel boring into each other, bound together by a thread of defiant pleas. Hosea’s breathing was coming down to a more regular pace while Dutch’s lungs seemed to have permanently shrunk inside him, air puffing in and out of his mouth in loud blows. Hosea stared at him and waited. And waited.

And then he rolled his hips.

 _Slowly_.

Dutch’s gasp was so sharp its echo bounced back against the rock of their shelter.

Hosea repeated the movement once, twice, _thrice_ , settling into an excruciatingly tranquil rhythm while pressing Dutch’s hips _hard_ , his thighs bracketing his like an iron wrench, keeping them close together and still, _too still_. Dutch’s hips were restrained in such a position that all they could offer was feeble twitches, too anchored to the ground by Hosea’s irresistible weight and the rough brush of his constricted length against his own to do anything else.

“Ain’t that what you wanted? Back in that cell? Did I read that look wrong, when I got you flat on your back, all pantin’ and sweatin’?”

Dutch whimpered.

Hosea kept thrusting in sluggish, uncompromising waves, a patient ocean unconcerned with the prospect of the upcoming storm. He almost looked casual doing it too, the way his lips were barely parted and his eyes kept their hazel fixed on Dutch, still bright and unfazed while Dutch was struggling to keep his eyes open and focused.

_Bastard._

“You had that look in your eyes… Those pretty, bottomless brown eyes of yours. Do you have any idea how they looked then?”

Dutch’s eyes snapped shut as the muscles of his chest fought one another in a chaotic and irreconcilable attempt to contain the moans he knew lied in wait in the confines of his throat and to simply keep _breathing_.

It was the one losing battle he had no choice but to lose, and lose it he did with a heavy groan when Hosea’s stomach fully sprawled over his like liquid lead, pressing his painful erection between the mirroring tautness of their lower abdomens.

“I’d like to get a long look at ‘em _now_ ,” Hosea kept going. His voice was serene, yet its lowest notes resonated with the color of barely concealed hunger. “Think you can open them and look at me?”

Dutch’s eyes remained shut.

Hosea’s chest slid over Dutch’s as his hands, still closed around Dutch’s forearms, slowly pushed them back until his closed fists rested a good three inches above his head. Dutch let him, too tangled in the frenzy of flames licking his insides as Hosea kept rolling down on him.

Two things happened at the same time then.

Hosea’s thighs spread out slightly to accommodate his change of position, freeing Dutch from their clasp; his hips, now finally able to fully push back, bucked upwards with utter abandon to pursue the dry friction of Hosea’s crotch against his. And at that exact moment, Hosea—taking a sudden and sharp intake of breath when Dutch’s groin collided with his—dived to latch his mouth onto his neck, pressing his nose into the hollow of his jawbone and sinking the burning heat of his shuddering breath into his skin as his lips and tongue stroked the quivering bulge of his Adam’s apple.

The moan that came out of Dutch’s mouth was deafening to his own ears.

“ _Please, I_ —Hosea, th—this is…”

His eyes were still shut tight. The drop of sweat he could feel rolling down his temple left a trail of fire on his skin. The weight on his body seemed to lift off a bit, and Hosea’s face brushed away from his neck. It took him two seconds too long to realize his hands were free of movement.

“Dutch, look at me…”

He would. In a minute. Maybe when he felt his heartbeat in his chest rather than in his cock.

“ _Dutch_. Hey. Look at me, dearest.”

A palm came to rest against his cheek. Warm, and yet it almost felt cool against the fire of his blood. A second hand cupped the other side of his face, and Dutch’s eyes blinked open.

Hosea was looking down at him, sweet concern etched in the frown of his brow.

“You okay down there?” he asked, his tone low and gentle. “Was it too much?”

Dutch stared at him, his words getting lost in the discordant rhythm of his breathing. He inhaled twice, both intake a drowsy attempt at winning back some semblance of coherence from the scattered pieces of his thoughts until a question finally emerged from the fog of his brain.

“W—What did you stop for?”

He hadn’t even meant to sound _that_ offended, but as the words poured out of his mouth, he was becoming sharply aware of Hosea’s stillness and the small yet growingly unbearable distance separating their chests.

Hosea’s eyes widened and a snort escaped him, making Dutch release a shaky wheeze at his confounded expression. Hosea lowered his body back against Dutch as worry left his lungs in a long sigh that soon dissolved into giggles, echoing the low, uneven melody of Dutch’s laughter as the conman rested his forehead against his chin for a second.

“Damn,” Hosea tittered, his swearing carrying as much bite as the meowing of an affronted kitten. “You seemed too far gone for a second.”

Dutch strained his neck to nestle his nose and bury his chest-deep chortle into his pale blond hair.

“I don’t think so. I don’t know… That a bad thing?”

Hosea dislodged his head, granting his chin the gift of a peck before taking a proper look at him.

“Well… It can be if you’re not used to it or if you don’t want it,” he replied, brushing a wild, curly lock of hair out of Dutch’s eyes.

“Ooh, I very much wanted it. I asked you to show me, didn’t I? And you seem to… know your way around in those matters.”

He could have winced at the bashfulness of his tentative insinuation. He’d taken pride in not being a clueless and over-excited tween anymore for too long now to not regret unveiling his lack of experience with such lack of grace.

A kiss on the crease of his forehead snatched him back from that pit of irking self-consciousness. He would have translated the gentleness of the gesture as infantilizing sympathy had it come from any other lover.

But Hosea wasn’t any other lover, now, was he?

“I’ve had my fair share of wanderin’ and foolin’ around. Not always for the best reasons, nor with the best folk,” Hosea simply said, brushing a thumb against the mount of his right eyebrow, and Dutch let the unspoken fade into the air like a thin veil of smoke. There were nights by the fire when obscurity called for the unearthing of their inner shadows, for the unveiling of the gnawing bitterness that spread through their pasts like thin veins of metal in the caves of their minds. Dutch would settle for nothing but light today.

He brought his mouth to Hosea’s eyelids, then the bridge of his nose, willing himself a barrier between Hosea and any thought of a time that had no place between the two of them.

Hosea hummed, pensive and reverent, draping his hand over his neck and letting it slither down his throat all the way to his collarbone. “So. Your verdict, my good sir?”

Dutch grinned at him, finding in Hosea’s relaxed posture the perfect opportunity to transmit his answer in a manner he knew with absolute certainty to be as unequivocal as it would be pleasant.

His lips lunged for Hosea’s throat, right under his jaw; his tongue pressed against the taut skin, poked at the shy layer of facial hair attempting to grow back after the recent disruption of his shaving routine, drank in that smell blending the scents of tobacco and pine resin—and maybe so many other plants he knew nothing of—under a thin sheen of perspiration.

Hosea shivered, the absence of distinct sound coming out of him compensated by his instant leaning into the touch, his chin cradling Dutch’s cheek like he meant to capture the heat of his kiss and absorb it into the pulsing veins running under his skin.

“My verdict,” Dutch rumbled, pulling back only after indulging himself with a couple more strokes of his tongue, “is that you’re wearin’ too many damn clothes for this weather.”

His hands got rid of Hosea’s last suspender then skidded over his flanks, sliding up to his chest as his fingers spread over the chiseled muscles he could sense under the cotton of his shirt until they reached the first unclasped button waiting just under the dip of his clavicle. With his core flexed to maintain the position, Dutch set himself to work all of them open in gestures that traded precision for intent, his eyes fixed on the swooping line of Hosea’s collarbone.

“Duly noted,” Hosea smiled, the hint of a stutter hanging onto the last word. His fingers traced down Dutch’s vest in a smooth, uninterrupted motion, popping open each button with an expertise that would make working girls blush. “I happen to share the sentiment.”

“Great minds…” Dutch trailed off, now brushing that shirt off Hosea’s shoulders, slipping it down his arms till it piled into folds around his wrists, his stare running down the finely drawn edges of his chest—svelte but hard with contained strength and swiftness, covered by a smooth skin sprinkled with a thin coat of hair so pale it was almost invisible and a couple of even paler scars which he could see only too clearly; his gaze then settled on the elegant curve of his waist and that perfect balance of grace and firmness that carved the bent of his hipbones plunging into the circle of his belt.

He hardly noticed Hosea straightening his back and pulling on the sleeves of his shirt to cast it aside; his hands were too busy cupping that waist, molding to the dry arches of his sides as his little fingers dug into the soft lump of flesh resting atop his hips.

A shiver pierced through his contemplation as Hosea’s hand drifted over his now exposed pecs while its twin finished working on the buttons of his shirt, the lapels of his vest now lying against his sides and arms like open shutters. The tips of Hosea’s fingers left cold spots on his burning skin, and there was no doubt in Dutch’s mind that he was willingly slowing down the caress of his hand over the river of hair trailing down under his navel.

However, it was only when those fingers reached the buckle of his belt that his own hands sprang back into motion, unclasping Hosea’s belt with hurried fingers. He then flexed his thighs and abs to lift himself off the blanket and wriggle out of his shirt and vest, discarding them in one brutal sweep of his arm before returning to Hosea’s belt, pulling it off in several jagged yanks of his wrists as Hosea’s thumb and index rolled over the button of his jeans under the undone buckle of his belt, still very much in place around his waist. Dutch’s hands immediately returned to Hosea’s hips, gripping bone, muscles, and the rim of his pants as he pressed his mouth where Hosea’s neck and shoulder met, taking small, shallow intakes of air.

His partner’s breath was a mountain breeze against the shell of his ear, whipping his blood like a wild horse yet carrying reinsurances in the softness of his lips.

He felt his belt finally slip out of the loops of his jeans and a hand cradle his hips as he lowered himself back to the ground, taking Hosea down with him as he pulled his lips into another kiss. When Hosea leaned back, ready to take things further, Dutch’s hand flew to his neck, cupping his nape in an earnest gesture.

“You called me ‘dearest’.”

No question mark came to erode the steadiness of his tone. The word, previously lost in the fog of his building pleasure like an echo drifting in the wind, had resurfaced to the front of his mind with sharp clarity, as warm as the sun shining down on that secret refuge nestled in the loving arms of a river.

Hosea looked down at him, and his expression would have been indecipherable were it not for the vulnerable honesty pooling in the amber of his eyes. His thumb rubbed across Dutch’s bottom lip in what the boldest part of himself would have described as adoration.

When he answered, his voice abandoned the cloak of whispers and rose above the clapping of the stream and the rasping of their breaths as if to take all of nature as his witness.

“That’s what you are to me.”

And Dutch _smiled_ , so wide he felt moisture gather in the corner of his eyes.

So wide that Hosea, so solemn and so exposed to his own self-deprecation a second ago, had no choice but to mirror him.

Dutch’s fingers carded through the short blond locks as their mouths collided once more.

“ _Dearest_ ,” Dutch repeated in between kisses, tasting the word on his tongue before licking it into Hosea’s mouth. “ _My_ dearest. _Mijn_ _schatje_. Look at you.”

Their pants were still hanging around their hips when they resumed their rutting against each other. Trembling sighs escaped their lips as their hips ground together, set in a calm pace only made slow so that they could savor each inch of friction. Stifled whimpers soon joined the chorus of Dutch’s sighs as the world seemed to narrow down to the pulsing heat of his core, the hold of Hosea’s fingers and lips, the rubbing of their cocks.

A pair of hands slid against his belt loops, and he felt fingers pry into the folds of his pants and drawers, scratching against his skin as they hooked the fabric. Dutch arched his back to hoist his ass up, exhaling loudly through his nose at the inevitable loss of contact when Hosea leaned back on his heels to remove his pants and take off his boots and socks after several yanks. The cool caress of air on his bared legs and now freed cock sent shivers from the small of his back to the expanse of his shoulder blades.

“C’mere,” he drawled, but his body, now bent in a sitting position, had already bridged most of the distance between them before Hosea needed to move.

Dutch’s fists clutched the rims of Hosea’s jeans, dragging them down in hasty jerks of his arms. Hosea snickered, but his fingers seemed just as feverish as Dutch’s when the layers of fabric slipped down his thighs, revealing his fully hard cock. Dutch repressed a moan as Hosea wiggled himself out of his clothes and boots, whipping them away with a sweep of the leg as he crawled back to him, his hands roaming over his ribs with renewed vigor as their shuddering breaths blended in another kiss.

Dutch gasped when their naked chests finally flattened against each other. The gasp turned into a groan when their now bared cocks rubbed together in the cradle of their hips.

Hosea’s lips ghosted over his cheekbone before nestling themselves in the hollow of his neck, chasing the sound of his moans as his tongue and teeth worshipped his skin. Dutch buried the sounds grinding out of his chest into Hosea’s shoulders, the fingers of his left hand clasping around his nape and carding through pale blond locks while the right trailed down his lower back to grab his ass and press him closer. Hosea’s voice vibrated against his throat and his hand flew to Dutch’s hair, gripping the disheveled black curls in a hold that was neither rough nor soft.

They kept grinding into each other’s hips, the pace slowly building up. Dutch’s cock was rock-hard, almost painful. Waves of pleasure were twisting in his core as his hands mapped every inch of pale skin they could explore, stroking and squeezing Hosea’s warmth with the trembling eagerness of a desperate fool trying to keep his head afloat in an expanding sea of ecstasy. He was barely succeeding. Perhaps he only did so because of that small but persisting prickling he could feel in the furthest corner of his mind, cutting sharp against the fog of his bliss, like a stone stuck inside a boot. His mouth hung open in the curve of Hosea’s neck as he pressed his closed eyes against his jaw, panting hot puffs of air while he unconsciously tightened his grip on his partner’s hair, striving to immerse that stone into the depth of his brain, hoping to drown it and himself into the overwhelming storm of his senses.

All of them had shut themselves from their surroundings, the entirety of the world now narrowed down to the man on top of him and the scalding heat swirling in the anchor of their cocks. When he opened his eyes, all he could see was amber and gold and the light tones of his skin. His ears were tuned to every sigh, to every fragment of his voice buried in strained gasps, to the soft but loaded sounds of tensing muscles and rubbing skin. His tongue and nose knew only the taste and smell of his body, both musky and salted, an intoxicating paradox. And his hands _…_

His hands were now cradling Hosea’s, which had moved to cup his face; he hooked his fingers with his, brushed his knuckles as Hosea’s thumbs rubbed circles against the corners of Dutch’s eyes, smoothing the tension that had lodged itself there without him noticing.

Another kiss stole his breath, patient, and tender. He opened his eyes to a vision.

Hosea, his best friend, his partner—his _lover_ —was staring down at him with wide black pupils crowned with gold. His cheeks and neck were flushed, and his usually neatly side-swept hair was now tousled in messy yet graceful blond waves.

Dutch’s lungs could have frozen if they didn’t desperately need oxygen at that moment.

“What’s on your mind? Hm?”

And just like that, the disagreeable nibbling he’d try to repress reemerged, feeding on a fear he’d tried to ignore ever since the day he’d realized he wasn’t looking at Hosea the way he’d looked at any other man. Or woman.

Hosea leaned down, pressing short kisses against his pleading lips as he kept rocking against him, albeit at a slower pace.

“What do you want?” he asked, his voice a caress against his mouth. “Tell me. _Please_.”

His hand glided over his throat and Dutch’s answer was almost a whimper, caught between the dual burns of pleasure and self-consciousness, but carried by the gentleness of Hosea’s plea.

“I—I want you, but I never…”

His hands tightened around Hosea’s wrists, and he almost lunged at his lips in the hope of escaping his alarm which was so tightly wrapped in the coat of his awkwardness.

Hosea’s hold was firm around his jaw, however, but more importantly, his gaze was piercing, observant. Caring.

This was the man who always knew how to listen to Dutch’s silence.

“You never had a man before.”

His thumbs went back to tracing calming circles on his skin. Dutch’s grasp on his wrists relaxed ever so slightly.

“... And no man ever had you.”

Dutch didn’t nod, but his gaze dropped to focus on one of his hands, still wrapped around Hosea’s wrist. The second of silence that followed was confirmation enough, perturbed only by the roll of their hips.

“I’ve— _hah_ —I’ve had women,” he drawled as if to counter an accusation that hadn’t been uttered by anyone save his own apprehension.

Hosea slowed the rutting of his crotch almost to a stop, but Dutch kept bucking his, covering that infuriating uneasiness gnawing at his brain with the sweet distraction of pleasure.

“ _Don’t stop_ ,” he panted, his teeth grazing the skin of Hosea’s shoulder, “don’t stop, I want you, _God_ , I want you, but I don’t want to—I just don’t _know how…_ ”

He pushed up his hips faster, more forcefully, dragging a low whine from Hosea, chasing the sensation like it was seconds away from being sucked away from him. A hand pressed down on his hips, trying to make him slow down.

“D—Dutch—”

“I want _this_ to—to mean something, but I—I just don’t…”

The hand pressed harder, and Dutch moaned in frustration and dejection, forced to slow down because of Hosea’s insistence. He licked the valley of Hosea’s clavicle, kissed the hill of the bone with something akin to desperation.

“Dutch, _it’s okay_. Look at me.”

Reluctantly, Dutch followed the guidance of Hosea’s other hand, which still cupped the side of his face, its palm resting against his cheek and temple while two fingers played with his hair. Hosea’s half-lidded gaze matched his own, and comfort, mirth, and a revering softness such as he’d never seen were waiting for him where he’d started to expect disappointment.

“It’s okay,” Hosea breathed again. “You’re alright.” To prove his point, he maintained the rocking of their hips at a sensual pace, keeping it slow and light but steady for a long quiet minute, anchoring _him_ , anchoring them _both_ , holding to that vibrant bond of pleasure and never letting go. “We’re alright. We don’t need to do more. We can just…”

Instead of finishing his sentence, he pressed down _hard_ against Dutch, making them both gasp as they felt the thin persisting threads of restraint unravel strand by strand with each new move of their hips, myriads of sentences splintering against the walls of their skulls and leaving only scattered words for their tongues to mumble and whisper.

“Just like that… is it okay?”

Dutch’s hands were clawing at Hosea’s back.

“ _Yes!_ Please, yes! I’m sorry… I want— _God_ , Hosea—I just want it… _mean_ something…”

His breathing got swallowed by Hosea as he shoved his mouth against his, and before his mind could process it, two arms had slithered under his to hook behind his shoulders. He blinked as he noticed the tension in Hosea’s muscles, then let himself be rolled over until their positions were switched, Hosea now lying down on the rumpled covers, his face framed by Dutch’s elbows.

Dutch’s body quivered at the sudden exposure of his back to the breeze. One of his hands spread over Hosea’s torso, teasing a nipple with a shuddering thumb as he dived for the overpowering taste of his throat. Hosea keenly responded with a sharp intake of breath, before interlacing his fingers with Dutch’s and pressing their foreheads together.

“It already _does_. You’re wonderful. So beautiful…” he replied, letting Dutch be in control of the rhythm, molding himself to him with each pressure and slide of Dutch’s body, surrendering to his weight and needs like grass bending under the wind, letting his body glow and sing as his sudden vulnerability absorbed all of Dutch’s anxiety, to leave only adoration, urgency and hunger.

The sight was enough to have Dutch’s hips pick up the pace on their own, but the idea that Hosea was ready to let everything go to help him overcome his doubts, trusted him so profoundly despite his shortcomings and many imprudences, all to make him feel safe, make him feel _loved_ , went even beyond the overwhelming delights of the flesh. His mind was near reduced to a puddle of lust, and his eyes clenched shut to preserve the remaining crumbs of self-control he still possessed. He was barely able to distinguish Hosea’s shuddering sighs from his own.

Hosea’s hand, still holding his, soon trailed south down their chests. Dutch felt the coarse brush of their fluffs on his knuckles and then forgot all about it when Hosea guided him to his cock.

“Tell me,” Hosea prodded, his voice stuttering when Dutch’s hand wrapped around his length, “does this feel like it means nothing?”

Dutch’s own erection twitched against the sheath formed by their hands as Hosea’s prompted him to stroke his cock up and down, before sliding his hand out of the tight space between their abdomens. Dutch needed little incentive, relishing in the way Hosea opened and closed his mouth at irregular intervals in silent, contained gasps, all until he brought his hand to his mouth to spit in his palm. Dutch couldn’t hold back _his_ gasp, however, when Hosea’s hand traveled south again to circle his cock and inflict the same treatment on him, working him at the same rhythm Dutch had previously set for their hips.

“Tell me, dearest. Does it?”

“N—no,” he admitted, lost in the dual sensations of Hosea’s hot cock in his hand and the pulsating of his own, so deliciously encased and worshipped by expert fingers.

“You have me. You have me,” Hosea said in ragged whispers, exploring Dutch’s tangled hair with his other hand, clutching at his locks as Dutch swooped down on his neck, assaulting his skin with a litany of moans that were only growing louder with each twist of their wrists and snap of their hips. “I promise you. You _have_ me.”

Hosea’s thumb slipped under the head of his cock, then glided back up, sliding against the slit before his wrist twisted down again.

“ _Hah!_ —and you— _you_ have me,” Dutch slurred in a discordant croak. “ _God_ , Hosea…”

His hips jerked into the cradle of Hosea’s thighs. Biting his bottom lip, he hooked an arm under one of Hosea’s bended knees and roughly propped his leg up against his hip, pressing down a little bit harder, a little bit faster.

Hosea sucked in air, and his clenched fingers twitched against his scalp. As he exhaled, he guided Dutch’s length against his so they could wrap and work them both with their joined hands. They soon worked to absorb each other’s pace, slicking up their cocks in spit and precum as their hips thrust into the hot sheath of their palms.

And their eyes locked.

For a few minutes, air weighed heavier than lead inside their lungs. Their foreheads pressed hard against one another, and their ears filled with the wet and slick sounds of their cocks moving against each other and in and out of the tight circle of their hands, only interrupted by the occasional constricted and trembling sigh when they could no longer hold their breaths, followed by a quick and rough intake. Their mouths hung open, mouths almost brushing each other’s but always apart, only held back by the torturous need to prolong this sinful symphony for as long as they could and watch the other be consumed by ecstasy, clinging to the promise of their upcoming climax, made all the more incandescent for it.

The tandem of their wrists soon became too intense, however, and Dutch could only hold back his grunts for so long when subjected to this kaleidoscope of noises and smells and touches. He hadn’t thought the fire in his gut could find a way to burn even hotter, and yet…

His nails dug into the skin of Hosea’s thigh as he shut his eyes and attempted to contract his core through its increasingly erratic spasms, trying to contain the coiled-up tendrils of pleasure lapping at his insides.

“Look at you,” Hosea panted hoarsely, letting go of Dutch’s curls to claw at his shoulder to help him maintain his balance. “This feels good? Hm? My cock against yours?”

“Y—yes! Yes, _yes_ , _yes_ ,” he whimpered, each new moan making it more difficult to think beyond the desire to chase the flames of his pleasure. “F—Fuck, Hosea, _yeah_.”

“You’re doin’ so good.”

Hosea then hooked his propped-up leg more firmly over Dutch’s waist and lower back. Dutch was distantly aware he could use his freed hand to spread his weight and relieve the strain he’d put on his knees, but the slight discomfort felt like the memory of a sensation that belonged to a world different from the one he and Hosea had nestled themselves in. His hand roamed over Hosea’s thigh instead, pinched his narrow waist, drifted to the hollow of his groin to drag a shiver from the man, felt the contracting cords of his abs before moving up to his chest and finally his neck. He drove his hips _harder_ , _faster_ , chasing a pace that he had no hope of keeping steady. He felt Hosea arch his back, meeting his thrusts with equal fervor, his wrist speeding up the stroking of their tangled hands.

“ _Oh…_ Oh God, Hosea, I’m—”

“ _Yeah_ , c’mon. C’mon.”

Release was creeping up on him, irresistible, like a wave he’d felt rise in the distance, drawing him into deep water as it reached for the skies, and now threatened to crash down on him at any second. His arms and thighs were trembling with irregular contractions, fighting to hold against this unwavering tension that could only grow tauter inside his core. He swept his arm under Hosea’s shoulder, gripped the perspiring skin with the full strength of his fingers, and fucked even faster into the ring of their intertwined hands, pounding Hosea hard into the blanketed ground.

“ _Hah!_ “ Hosea hissed through gritted teeth as his hand flew to clutch the nape of his neck. “ _Dutch—_ ”

“I’m c—close,” Dutch managed through heaving breaths, burying his face into his chest, “I’m close, I’m close, _fuck_ —”

“ _Yes_ , yes, c’mon, let go…”

The wild pace he had strained to reach dissolved into an uneven staccato. His teeth pressed into the flesh that connected Hosea’s neck to his shoulder, whimpers, and grunts cascading out of his mouth without restraint, echoing the ragged moans his partner could no longer hold back. Their music flooded into Dutch’s ears, each of its notes climbing higher with every thrust, conquering all other sounds and flowing right down to his swollen cock.

Hosea gave a quick, rough twist of his wrist between their groins once.

“ _Hosea—_ ”

_Twice._

His mind went blank, overtaken by an explosion of ecstasy. He came with a guttural groan, shooting long streaks over both their hands and stomachs, ears ringing under the loud thumping of his pulse, his fingers twitching and clawing at Hosea’s shoulder as the man kept on rolling his hips and jacking their cocks, pushing forward as Dutch’s entire frame stiffened over his.

Dutch’s voice vibrated against Hosea’s skin in shuddering moans as his partner desperately kept rocking him through the aftershocks, kindling the persisting flames inside him until there was nothing left to be consumed, drowning him in the too-much-ness of it.

“You did—so good. So good… _Oh God, Dutch_ —”

Dutch ground his teeth and forced his eyes open, fighting off the sirens of blissful exhaustion that were threatening to enfold his mind into a sweet mist, and slowly molded himself back to a rhythm, accompanying Hosea’s shuddering movements, flexing the muscles of his forearm and wrist to help him to his climax.

Hosea tilted his head back, mouth agape and welcoming as he let out another weak, trembling moan. The vision alone of that neck bent in such an exquisite arch, that bobbing Adam’s apple and the sharp but elegant angles of his jaw made Dutch’s struggle to hold on a little longer worth all the pain and sweat in the world. He gave a sharp buck his hips, muffling a cry as his overstimulated cock twitched in the hot and wet clasp of their hands. His mouth drifted to Hosea’s chin, climbed up, and pinched his bottom lip between his teeth before diving to catch Hosea’s next whine in a quivering kiss.

“ _Please_ ,” he begged softly, his voice low and cracking. “Please come, _dearest_.”

Hosea’s fingers tightened into a fist over his neck, holding his hair in a death grip, and his entire body shook as he came in a strangled noise, shooting his spend in powerful splashes over their already soiled skins.

All the air pent up inside Dutch’s lungs came out in one long, coarse exhalation as both their bodies stuttered in a last series of involuntary spasms. The bottled-up tension that had kept his muscles going fled all at once, leaving him to sag against Hosea as both their chests rose and fell in deep, heaving breaths. Hosea let out a soft ‘ _oomf’_ that was promptly replaced by a snort. Dutch chuckled into the curve of his neck, his laugh peppered by intakes of air as he slowly sank into the embrace of tranquil bliss, relishing the warmth of Hosea’s body against his and letting it envelop him like soft cotton. Hosea’s laughter brushed against his hair and sweat-covered brow, and he felt a smile tug at his lips as the man’s chest shook under him.

“God, you’re heavy, but you’re wonderful,” Hosea beamed, looking down at him with that spark that Dutch treasured above all lights.

“You chose to be where you are now, Old Girl,” Dutch countered with a quivering chuckle and raised eyebrows. Nevertheless, he gently let himself slide to the side so that only half his body covered Hosea’s, and used his momentum to dislodge his hand from between their slicked abdomen and rub it clean on a distant region of the rumpled blanket that had bravely sustained the assaults of their passion.

Fine fingers came to brush back the matted hair plastered on his forehead, followed by a thumb caressing the skin of his temple.

“Yeah. I did,” Hosea agreed, the spark melting into something gentler.

Dutch’s brows eased down on his face as he took in all the silent but inescapable implications concealed in those three simple words, the relief and gratitude that Dutch could himself feel in each beat of his pulse. It was a quiet peace that only certainty could forge in the minds and hearts of men, the certainty of having made the right choice at the right time, of having opened a door looking onto a world whose true richness would be kept secret until the knob was turned.

It was a peace he had never known before he’d met Hosea.

He lifted a hand to cup his jaw, bringing their faces close together so that he could press small kisses against the hill of that sharp and beautiful cheekbone. His mouth then slowly slid down to catch his lips and tongue in a long and reverent embrace.

“You have no idea,” he breathed after they let a long minute fade in the tenderness of their kiss, “how grateful I am.”

“For this?” Hosea asked, his playfulness only a thin coat over the gentleness of his gaze.

“For all of you.”

_Faith made man. His compass. His Northern Star._

His answer was met with shimmering hazel, and he let himself be pulled into another kiss as Hosea tangled their legs together, stretching an arm to clean his sullied hand on a portion of the cover above their heads before cupping his neck.

“I _do_ have an idea,” Hosea replied, voice light like the morning dew as it painted Dutch’s face with the warmth of truth. “I have no word to describe what you’ve offered me today. What you’ve offered me since that first day.”

Their faces nuzzled against each other as Dutch wrapped his arms around the frame of his partner. He held him close, savoring the musk and heat of his skin, letting his palms mold the expanse between his shoulder blades and the curve of his back, pressing their foreheads together as their breathing aligned in a calm harmony that was theirs and theirs alone. Hosea’s hands held his neck and shoulder, rubbing those circles that knew how to soothe even the wildest tempests of his blood, and flattened their still smeared stomachs together, exhaling a slow, contented sigh. They both knew they should clean and cover themselves up, but there was no fighting their mutual desire to hold the other for just a little while. _A little longer._

The ghost of sleep nibbled at the edges of Dutch’s awareness, but their eyes remained fixed on each other, brown on hazel and hazel on brown.

Hosea carded clean fingers through his hair before adding:

“I was lost before you. I was lost and I didn’t even know.”

Dutch breathed through the murmur, felt its echo caress his skin as he stared at the man he was holding so close like an image held its reflection. The hand he’d rested against Hosea’s neck drifted up toward his hair, caressing the locks in slow, devoted motions.

Their eyes had been closed for a good while when Dutch mumbled his answer against his lips:

“And before you, I didn’t know what it meant to be found.”

Hosea smiled. So did Dutch.

The world let them hold each other a little longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *clenches fist*
> 
> They soft.
> 
> See you next century (or sooner). Hopefully the next chapter won't be _that_ long.


	5. The First Time Dutch Thought He Had Lost Hosea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there!  
> Remember when I said that chapter would be shorter than the last one. Haha. Hahaha. Hahaha!  
> Anyway, 90 pages on Google Docs later, here we are. I must first apologize for taking so long writing this. I could of course insist on the, ahem, length of this, but I must also confess that this has been a tough time for me creatively, and my writing sessions usually didn’t last very long (except for the last stretch). Which isn’t to say I didn’t enjoy writing this chapter, paradoxically. I’m way too in love with those stupid cowboys anyway. But let us say that a crisis of confidence concerning my oververbose writing style didn’t necessarily accelerate the process… Fortunately, HAH! This is Red Dead we’re talking about, a world I love too much to let myself be stopped. And even more fortunately, good old [platonicharmonics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/platonicharmonics/pseuds/platonicharmonics) was there every step of the way to give me strength and support as I pushed through this monster chapter. So it is only natural I should, once again, dedicate this chapter to you, brother. I love you.  
> But enough chitchat, this chapter is already long as it is (and well, I guess I could have split it, leave some themes untouched and kept them for another story/chapter… But exploring what I explored in this one felt right, and while I’m never confident in the result, I am nonetheless happy I stuck by this decision).  
> Hoping that you will enjoy this despite its length (and my all consuming self-indugence). For my defense, I will disclose this: there are actually 2 other “first times” in this chapter… I’m sure you’ll spot them ;)
> 
> Some **CONTENT WARNINGS** : **gore** , and some **heavy mental dissociation**. Also, there’s some **smut** … Talkative and soft cowboys, you’re warned.

“You never said much about why you and your Ma didn’t see eye to eye.”

Dutch hadn’t meant for their conversation to drift towards that topic when he’d asked Hosea to tell him about the mountains he was born in. However, given how the cold Appalachian peaks and valleys had framed and shaped Hosea’s childhood and chaotic upbringing before his escape from said mountains, he supposed it was fair game.

A knotted ribbon of obstinacy usually kept his lips sealed on the matter and would allow only for a shrug-off and an evasive remark about ‘disagreements’, as well as the ‘irresistible call of the wild’ that teenage boys so often succumbed to—except said call was too engraved in his bones to leave him even after his restless body had reached adulthood.

But Hosea was Hosea, and as such, he more than often managed to gracefully saunter across the trenches of Dutch’s stubbornness.

“It was… difficult, after a while, to live in the same cramped house as her,” he answered after a minute of pondering. It occurred to him then that he’d never put that particular part of his life into words. He didn’t have any lack of those, but the difficulty lied in the picking.

“Did you hate her or did she hate you?”

Dutch smiled as he dug through his satchel for his pack of cigarettes. Hosea had this knack for interlacing even into the bluntest tone the promise of understanding. In its own opened and detached way, that tone could offer a sort of comfort that would invite confession yet knew not to cross boundaries. Dutch often wondered if Hosea developed that particular trait as his conman career had progressed or if it had been engraved in him from the start, ready to be used either like an outstretched hand or a clenched fist.

“Neither,” he chuckled as he struck a match against the leather of his saddle and brought it to the cigarette now trapped between his teeth. He let the smell of burning tobacco fill his nostrils before continuing, “We loved each other as well as a mother could love her son and her son could love her back, I suppose. The thing was that our strings weren’t tuned together. I had dreams and she had none.”

The clopping of Diamond Ace’s hooves grew nearer. He glanced to his right to find that Hosea had closed the distance between their two horses, extending an arm in his direction, an unlit cigarette pinched between his fingers. Dutch nodded and offered the flame of another match before shaking it off and discarding it onto the old dirt road they were treading on.

“You were sure of that?”

There wasn’t any judgment in that question, merely curiosity.

“I wasn’t sure of anything until she told me those very words herself,” Dutch snorted dryly.

His eyes wandered over the distant western Tennessean hills that stretched for miles in the distance, a necklace of old and fading silhouettes warning the travelers of their taller Appalachian sisters guarding the horizon. Still, there was a sort of grandeur to these soft, rounded reliefs persisting through the ages. Their height held no comparison to the peaks of the Appalachians, but perhaps there was some good in that. They still stood higher than the land he was born to; if the onlooker so desired, they would be able to watch through these hills and catch a glimpse of the world spreading beyond them like a sea of possibilities glistening under the sun and moon. ‘ _The Appalachians are a_ _magnificent view to wake up to,’_ Hosea had confessed a few minutes earlier, his voice drowned in a nasal exaggeration of the accent of his childhood, ‘ _but one can get tired of hearing the echoes of their own voice and that of your crazy, drunken uncle._ ’ Now that he could make out the hard lines of the summits concealed in the haze of the horizon, he was slowly getting why a man like Hosea, still so in tune with the austerity of the wilderness, would choose to leave those awe-inspiring walls that Nature had erected too close to one another. No matter how majestic and flowered its walls, a prison remained a prison.

“The words she said right after were exactly this,” he continued, tapping his temple with his index as he turned back to Hosea, “‘ _you’re gonna leave just as your father did._ ’ I never could quite make my peace with her after she said those words.”

Hosea puffed a small cloud of smoke, lips barely parted as his gaze glided towards the distant mountains Dutch had contemplated. “Because she was right about you?” he eventually inquired, giving Dutch a smile that was as witty as it was considerate.

The laugh that erupted from Dutch’s chest was loud.

“Argh, no… Strangely enough, I never resented her for all the times she was completely right. Oh, I sure must have barked at her like a mangy, angry pup, but in the end, I must have seen _why_ she was right on those occasions, and maybe that’s what I loved the most about her… when I stopped being stubborn.” He buried his chuckle in the next inhalation of tobacco, letting the smoke erase the smile from his lips. “No, it wasn’t that. What I never really forgave her for was the blame she put on my father for fighting and dying. Because believe me, there was venom in the way she said it.”

Hosea looked at him for a long moment before focusing back on the road ahead, making the tip of his cigarette tilt up and down with rhythmic twitches of his jaw. “She was worried,” he mused, looking as if his thoughts were taking him beyond the hills.

The absence of a question mark in his tone had Dutch grind his teeth on his own cigarette before he countered, albeit calmly:

“I _know_ she was. Don’t mean she knew _how_ to worry. Most of the time, she made sure her affection was always tied to the condition of me stayin’ in the dark pit she was too happy to remain into. She didn’t say it outright but she sure knew how to _show_ it. Even had to hide the books I got from the town’s teacher at some point, because imagine what could happen if I was to get any ideas about the outside world.”

He could taste a slim thread of bile on the back of his tongue, the same that so often rose from his stomach each time the examination of his circumstances reached a bit deeper than what he’d anticipated—or wanted. The bitter taste had pervaded his words before he’d known it, and Hosea’s head had turned quickly in his direction, his expression as neutral and still as a prairie untouched by the wind, save for the slight curve of his eyebrows pressing down on his piercing eyes. The bile in Dutch’s throat evaporated into a long, remorseful sigh at the sight of the soothing hazel.

“I wasn’t judgin’,” Hosea stated, his gaze steady on him while Dutch dodged his eyes to stare down at his own hands. “I’m sorry if I gave you the idea.”

“I know you wasn’t,” he breathed out, glad to have the cover of smoke for a second. “I know you weren’t, I just ain’t used to talking about it, or even thinking about it no more.” He puffed his cigarette again before taking it out of his mouth and looking back at Hosea, his lips tugged in an apologetic smile. “Sorry. It wasn’t against you.”

“I know it wasn’t, dearest.”

Dutch couldn’t repress the pleasant shiver that coursed through his arms at the term of endearment, now exchanged so often in the secrecy of back alleys, in the dancing shadows of a campfire, or the safety of deserted country roads. If he’d been a cat, he knew he would have been purring under the sudden wave of tranquility that had washed over him the moment the word had cascaded down his ears.

His reassuring smile turned into a smirk as he drifted his reins slightly to the right to get them closer. Empress and Diamond Ace were now walking almost side to side. Empress shook her mane at the old mustang, who didn’t look bothered in the slightest by the fair warning, as he knew to keep his head low while maintaining the slow pace their riders had set for them. Even if she made a point of glaring at her travel companion, the mare seemed satisfied enough with the arrangement for the time being.

“Then if you knew, why are you goin’ all soft on me all of a sudden?”

One of Hosea’s eyebrows arched up to his hat. The left corner of his lips slowly stretched upward. “The reason escapes me. You’re right, I guess I should have called you a fool instead.”

“Ah, here he is! Ain’t it a bit too harsh now, however?” Dutch teased, decided on not letting him go that easy.

“You were the one apologizin’ when you didn’t have to, I reckon,” Hosea retaliated, tilting his chin up like an offended schoolmaster.

“Hmm,” Dutch pretended to ponder. “But _I_ reckon _you_ started it.”

“Damn it. That means then we’re both fools. Another victory in the art of rhetoric for the great Dutch van der Linde.”

“And now he mocks. The gal of this man.”

“Absolutely. But I can make it up to you.”

“Oh?”

Hosea winked at him and slowly puffed on his cigarette. Then, he gently pivoted on his saddle and leaned towards Dutch, his fingers asking permission as they brushed under his stubbled chin. Dutch granted it in earnest, gripping Hosea’s collar with one hand and opening his mouth to welcome the soft touch of his lips and tongue. The pulp of their lips pressed together for one second before Hosea exhaled the smoke he’d captured inside his lungs into Dutch’s mouth.

Dutch’s eyes drifted close, letting the green world around them fade away like the smoke he breathed from Hosea’s lips. His chest filled with the coarse warmth of tobacco and the sweet joy of companionship such as only men like them could taste. He smiled into the kiss, pleased with its uninterrupted smoothness and the universe of impish suggestions trapped between their lips.

That was when Empress tried to bite off Diamond Ace’s ear.

Dutch jerked away as his diaphragm jolted in a reflex, sending him into an inelegant coughing fit as he inhaled some smoke a tad too sharply while tugging on his reins. Empress—obviously pleased with the vital space she had gained back thanks to her little stunt—had however already settled back into perfectly collected behavior by the time he was done coughing. Meanwhile, Hosea was cackling as his stallion offered Empress his stinkiest eye.

“Oh, the princess is jealous.”

“She ain’t jealous, she’s pissy because she decided we’ve ridden for too long today. It’s only two in the afternoon, your majesty,” he scolded her, leaning low over her neck. She ignored him at first, then tilted her head towards him, reaching for his right boot in what he read as a half-hearted apology. “That or she ain’t too much into talks about disappointing parents,” he added, sitting back properly on his saddle.

“Like horse, like rider,” Hosea nodded.

“Exactly,” Dutch grinned with a wink. “I assume her folks were a disappointment too.”

Empress didn’t dignify that conjecture with a response, opting instead to lower her head and let her rider enjoy the tranquil pace of their afternoon trail towards the town meant to be their next escape. The closest chain of hills on their left and the deep, almost unnatural crevasse on their right framed the dirt road like two giant natural rails, forged in both fertile soil and dry barren rock, a vein and a wrinkle across the skin of the earth.

An easy silence wrapped around them like an old blanket, as comfortable and warm as the familiarity it was woven from.

“I often wonder,” Dutch drawled after a long while, his shield of bitterness somewhat breached by this regained tranquility, “why some people keep on pushin’ away or blamin’ those they love if they’re so afraid of losing ‘em.”

Hosea blinked at him. His eyebrows tensed under the brim of his hat, the sign of a reflecting that Dutch knew encompassed what he had revealed about his mother, the withered slices of lives Hosea had been the unexpected witness of, and memories of his own isolated childhood trapped between rocky walls and a chaotic household.

“Hell if I know. I guess they think it’ll spare ‘em the hurt when the losin’ comes.”

Dutch hummed, chewing on his tongue as if to taste the flavor of that potential explanation. He didn’t like it one bit.

“That’s a… rather pessimistic and cowardly way of practicing love, don’t ya think?”

Hosea looked back at him, his eyes filling with the soft light of this warm afternoon.

“I guess,” he contemplated after a long pause, his eyes still fixed on Dutch. He was conceding with welcoming grace, like a player of chess finding more delight in the last move that conquered his king than he found disappointment in defeat. His answer hung in the air for a few more seconds, until the corners of his lips twitched upward.

“What?” Dutch asked, never feeling to notice that sly smirk.

“Just you and them words. Again.”

“Oh, and you and your sarcasm. Ye of little faith,” Dutch sniped, shoving Hosea’s shoulder.

“On the contrary, I find myself quite persuaded by them. That’s a frequent thing with you and your way of seeing the world.”

“You called me a fool a thousand times for my way of seein’ the world if I recall correctly.”

“Ah, but we’ve established now that we are _both_ fools. It just took me longer to dig my own pit.”

Dutch’s laugh boomed across the plains, making their mounts’ ears twitch back on their skulls. The sound was trailed by Hosea’s wheezing breath as his own laugh crawled up his chest, inflating their hilarity as their combined echoes flew to the distant hills and fell down the cliff on the right side of the road.

“Now, here is something you and mummy would have agreed on. I _was_ already a fool before I ever learned to climb on the back of a horse. The first time I can recall her callin’ me that was also one of the few valuable lessons I learned from her.”

“Was it, now?” Hosea coaxed as he bent over to squash the tip of his consumed cigarette against the leather strap of his stirrup.

Dutch still had an inch left to smoke. He inhaled once more, and the smell and taste of tobacco poured down his throat as memories swam up to the surface of his mind.

“Must have been somethin’ like five or six. Got stung by a wasp. I don’t remember the full sequence of events. I must have been playin’ and rollin’ in the dirt around the house. What I fully remember was how utterly _unfair_ that sting was.” A flock of crows erupted from the small grove growing a few yards beyond on their left as Hosea wheezed loudly again. “It _was_ ,” Dutch insisted, determined to have Hosea understand the full measure of his distress back then.

“Oh, I have no doubt of that,” Hosea beamed.

“I done nothing to provoke the nasty thing, and yet it felt compelled to give me my first wasp sting. Right in the fold of my elbow. Of course, having never experienced that kind of offense, I found it to hurt like a bitch, and once I was done crying in pain, I was crying in rage. I was absolutely _furious_.”

“Of course you was.”

“So I did the only logical thing that could ever grace the mind of an enraged six-year-old brat when he finds himself in such a situation. I decided to hunt, pursue and confront my attacker.”

“I wish I could tell you this part surprises me,” Hosea snorted, “but it don’t one bit, my dearest friend.”

Dutch shrugged in concession, then resumed, his voice clothing itself with the purposefully melodramatic tone he used for the bigger-than-life yarns he would spin at the local saloon patrons. “Well. I got running around the house like a headless chicken with one of my daddy’s old boots in my hand and my mummy’s yells in my ear as I set myself in search of the first wasp I could find. And find one I did. And give chase I did. All the way down to that low stone wall marking the road. The wasp I was chasing—which I was so convinced was the culprit—swooped in between the stones. But the pride of a small boy has to be mended in some way or other, as you know, and so I hit the spot the wasp had shoved herself into with the boot as hard as I could.”

Hosea didn’t laugh this time, but his lips were stretched wider than the Grand Canyon. “Oh, Lord…”

Dutch smiled back, his own silent laughter shaking his chest as he brought his story to a close: “Next thing I knew, I was rushing back to the house, howling like a wild cat, pursued by a cloud of wasps whose fury put mine to shame. Ma managed to get me back inside without having our cabin invaded, somehow, but I sure won at least four more stings for my heroics. And as she treated the wounds of my flesh, she pried open the one on my pride with that lesson: ‘ _revenge is a fool’s game, and you sure played it like a fool. That'll serve you right!_ ’”

“And thus the fool learned something,” Hosea jibed.

“All thanks to Mrs. Greta van der Linde’s wisdom.”

The casual scratch he gave Empress at the base of her neck earned him a soft snort. Just like their shared laughter, the noise seemed to resonate tenfold in the immensity of this remote part of Tennessee. It soon faded, absorbed by the grass and the sky like all the sounds of nature.

“The world could use more fools,” Dutch said, puffing one last time on his dying cigarette before quashing it and throwing it away. “Especially this country. Fools are those who learn when the wise have lost their way.”

Hosea made a sound that was halfway between a sigh and a whistle. He pinched pinching the edge of his hat between his thumb and forefinger as he stared in the direction of the curve taken by the road in the distance. “So… we learning, Dutch?”

“I believe we are.”

“And what would you say it is we're learning?”

The question wasn’t pressing or even serious. Hosea had asked it like one would ask the time to a passer-by on the street, mind already set on the next business of the day.

Dutch clicked his tongue to have Empress quicken her pace to overtake Diamond Ace’s step by just a couple feet.

“Freedom, to begin with,” he offered, eyebrows raised in smug certainty.

Hosea rolled his eyes at that, although he offered no counter-argument and his lips remained generously curved.

“As if you disagreed,” Dutch contested with a sneer. “There’s companionship,” he continued, which he knew would transform the faint trace of mockery in Hosea’s smile into sometimes more gentle. “The greatest treasure man could dig for in his own heart.”

“Careful, van der Linde. They’ll call you a romantic.”

“They’ll call me a whole good deal of other things before that,” Dutch chuckled. “Am I so wrong, though, Hosea? Doesn’t every man aspire to that? To the only bonds that can truly set him free? A perfect paradox. Comrades. Family.”

A low chortle escaped Hosea’s throat as soon as the last word left Dutch’s mouth. “Maybe you’re right. Here’s one thing I know, however: I can act a lot of parts and con myself and folks into thinking I’m a lot of things, but a family man I certainly ain’t.”

Dutch indulged him for a few seconds. His gaze painted Hosea’s features, brushed over the softer curves of his jaw that his finely chiseled cheekbones could eclipse so easily in the half-light of shabby saloons or intimate campfires. He thought about how the hazel of his eyes could turn almost grey when drowned in the cold rage that triggered his Cattlemans… but melted like liquid suns whenever they stared at a frozen lake, contemplated an untouched wild prairie, or winked at a boy that had found his lost dog after fate had put him in the path of a helpful fair-haired outlaw with striking good looks and a good heart he couldn’t quite conceal under the cloak.

“You know,” he mused, his eyes drifting to the sky as he felt Hosea’s eyes shift back to him, “I'm starting to doubt that.”

Hosea’s next chuckle was more scoff than laughter. “Please… Give me jail time any day.”

“I’m certain you could teach a rugrat so much.”

“You know what, I might even take the rope over jail,” Hosea scorned with just enough good-humor that Dutch felt compelled to maintain his stroll on the fine line that separated teasing from genuine praise.

Hosea’s evident distaste for the prospect only made him want to drive his point in more fiercely. “C’mon, Old Girl, think about it for a second.”

“Oh, it’s well thought about, I assure you,” Hosea dismissed, eyes sliding eastward as if bored. “I ain’t nothing that could ever be good for a kid, and I don’t have no desire to ever be.”

Dutch frowned at Hosea’s stubborn disdain, staring back at him with equal obstinacy until Hosea had no choice but to look back. When he finally did, Dutch’s pout slowly turned into an impish smile.

“‘This man was of wonderful vigor, calmness, beauty of person—’”

“ _Jesus,”_ Hosea grunted.

“‘The shape of his head, the pale yellow and white of his hair and beard,’”—Dutch’s recitation came to a stop as he made a point of leaning back on his saddle and narrowing his eyes as he peered at Hosea’s clean-shaven face and shrugged—“‘the immeasurable meaning of his _hazel_ eyes, the richness and breadth of his manners—’”

“Stop it,” Hosea protested, but his smile had already reached his eyes.

Dutch’s grin only grew wider. “‘He was six feet tall, he was over… eighty years old’, really? _Damn_.”

His barytone broke into a series of low chortles the moment Hosea’s smile shook under his repressed chuckles.

“Well that one is terrible sweet-talkin’, even from you.”

“‘His sons were massive…’”

“And he forgets verses. That’s concerning.”

“‘They and his daughters loved him, all who saw him _loved him_ …’”

He had poured more reverence into that verse than in any that had come prior. Hosea’s brow creased under the weight of Dutch’s faith.

“I ain’t that kind of man, Dutch.”

“Really? I swear I could see it, though. What was it after this?” Dutch went on, racking his brain to remember the words which painted a completely new yet not fully inconceivable portrait of the man riding by his side. “‘When he went with his sons and grandsons to fish or hunt, you would pick him out as the most _beautiful_ and _vigorous_ of the gang.’” He knew his delivery lacked the smoothness he so often prided himself for as he recalled the distant verses. He compensated for it with as much shameless, playful praise as he could pour into the poet’s words and his own deliberate alterations.

“Flattery won’t get you nowhere, boy. You’re living in a dream world, here.”

“You gotta admit that good old Whitman here might as well have taken a good look at you when he composed those verses,” Dutch insisted.

“I ain’t eighty yet, thank you. And a look is hardly what makes a man,” Hosea replied with a shake of his head. “We both depend too much on that fact for you to be that naive about it.”

“You know, sometimes, you ain’t too fun, Hosea.”

“One of us gotta have that job. Sorry to disappoint you.”

Dutch blinked at him. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “ _Disappoint_?”

He gave his reins a subtle press of his fingers, guiding Empress to slow down and find her place right by Hosea’s side again. Hosea’s eyes were shrouded by his apparent offhandedness. Dutch felt rise in him the resolve to shove it aside like a curtain blocking the light of dawn. When he resumed his reciting, his voice was low and reverent, but dripping with a determination made of steel:

“‘You would wish long and long to be with him, you would wish to sit by him in the boat that you and he might touch each other.’”

Their knees brushed against one another once, and Dutch reached for Hosea’s wrist.

“‘I have perceiv’d that to be with those I like is enough, to stop in company with the rest at evening is enough, to be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh is enough…’”

Hosea sighed through his nose, the wisp of his breath carrying both unspoken apology and forgiveness as the corners of his eyes began to crinkle. Dutch’s thumb drew a circle on the back of his hand in response.

“‘...To pass among them or touch any one, or rest my arm ever so lightly round his neck for a moment, what is this then?’”

He abandoned Hosea’s hand to cup the nape of his neck, rubbing a new circle behind his jaw, taking in the warmth of his skin, the delight of their companionship, of the communion of their wild souls. Dutch surprised himself believing more in the promises of the verses he’d just spoken than he’d ever done in the past, like a merry adventurer finding a gold nugget when his goal had simply been to bathe in clean water. He caught himself painting in his mind something the past and present had refused so many men and women and which the future might deny them too: a vision of kindred souls, wanderers gathered in the pursuit of acceptance and love, sharing the heat of the same fire and the comfort of the same food, bonded in freedom and dreams.

A world of few.

And the two of them at the center, as dual stars.

“‘I do not ask any more delight, I swim in it as in a sea.’”

Hosea leaned briefly into his touch, grazing Dutch’s wrist with a tender snicker. Dutch’s chest heaved once with his own silent chuckle.

“You forgot verses again,” Hosea remarked without any bite.

“I know. Will you forgive me for such a sloppy rendition?”

“ _Hmm_. I will. Only because I like Whitman as much as you do. Even if you keep quoting him for ridiculous reasons.”

His hand abandoned the reins to slide over the back of Dutch’s hand, wrap itself around his fingers and carefully bring them to his lips.

Dutch waited until his knuckles were fully coated in the warmth of Hosea’s breath to offer him his most irreverent grin. “You ain’t so ridiculous, Old Girl.”

The noise that escaped his throat was neither smooth nor refined when Hosea’s fingers released his hand to flick the bridge of his nose.

Empress shook her mane again as Dutch maneuvered her into a graceful sidestep while Hosea readjusted his hat with a smugness that would have delighted all the bigwigs in Washington.

“I wish I could say the same about the man who all but threw a tantrum about crossing the border into Tennessee.”

Dutch made a sound that could have been mistaken for the groan of a bear. He only wished they could have found a more practical and _less southern_ station than Knoxville to jump on the train that would take them to the wilder lands of Colorado.

“Don’t think I’m done bein’ pissed about that. The sun ain’t down yet,” he grumbled.

“Come on, sour bastard,” Hosea cheered with that enthusiastic high pitch of his. As if to echo his master’s encouragement, Diamond Ace gave a soft neigh. “All you have to do to survive this ordeal is look at that nice view as we sit our asses on the saddle until we reach Knoxville, where you’ll have the luxury to lock yourself up in a hotel room until tomorrow.”

Dutch gave a half-hearted huff of agreement, as he couldn’t argue against the landscape. The towering silhouettes of the mountains watching over them in the distance gave these plains a sort of majesty that was hardly found in flat terrains.

“It _is_ a pretty spot,” he eventually conceded, finding solace in the strange natural contrast of those remote summits and the unusual small canyon striating the side of the road. “I hope you know I’m robbin’ the pockets of an entire wagon when we’re on that train as a compensation.”

“Of course. I’ll make sure to leave you some,” Hosea taunted.

The prospects of this auspicious challenge left them grinning at each other, the clip-clop of their tranquil strides echoing their heartbeats. Their conversation dissipated into quieter banter, then into the contemplation of the opportunities afforded by a land less corrupted, less civilized than the East lurking behind the mountains.

After at least thirty more minutes spent at this unhurried pace, the idea of speeding up poked at Dutch’s mind. He turned to look at Hosea, the temptation of asking for a race heavy on his tongue when a shadow slithered in the corner of his right eye. He turned his head just an inch further. There, just by the curve of the path they’d ridden on, not even a couple of hundred yards behind them, was the tall silhouette of a lone rider.

Dutch remained quiet and set his eyes back on the road ahead, prolonging the silence that had settled between them. He knew Hosea had somehow felt the shift in the air by the slight tilt of his head. Dutch could feel his gaze on his skin, asking without words, his quietness reflecting his patience. They kept their slow gait, letting a whole minute pass without exchanging a single word.

Dutch pivoted again. The silhouette had grown taller behind them.

“How well-traveled would you say this road is?” Hosea suddenly asked, still sitting straight on his saddle while Dutch kept his face turned towards the stranger, watching for any change in his pace in reaction to Dutch’s staring.

He shrugged. He knew his partner was looking at him with only feigned indifference, in fact watching out for every twitch, using Dutch’s eyes as his own. “Dunno. Can’t be too crowded given where we are. Nobody bothered fixing the signs, that’s for sure.”

Hosea hummed in response, letting Dutch peer some more at the man. Although difficult to judge at this distance, the rider seemed to be riding a tad quicker than when he’d first spotted him.

Hosea slowed down just enough for his face to slide into his peripheral vision. Dutch blinked once and caught the steel glimmer in his eyes. “You’re thinking bounty hunter.”

He had stated rather than asked, but Hosea nodded all the same.

“It’s probably nothing,” Dutch soothed him with a glance.

“They did give us a good chase in Kentucky.”

“We’re barely worth a copper in Kentucky,” he objected.

Hosea tipped his head forward. “Some men ride hard, even for a small bounty.”

“You’re being a worrywart again, Old Girl.”

“Maybe, but you’re the one who’s still staring at ‘im.”

Dutch didn’t protest this time. He eventually averted his gaze from the rider to look back at the road that stretched like a tired serpent trying to slink back to the safety of the far-off river he could make out a few miles ahead.

They were close.

“How about we speed it up a bit?” he proposed after a beat. “Won’t hurt to check our friend’s reaction. Better now than at the gates of the city.” A muffled chortle had him glance back at the man riding by his side. “Did I say something funny?”

“Not funny. _Reasonable_. And _now_ I’m worried,” Hosea said, a twinkle in his eye.

Dutch’s eyes soon reflected that spark despite the mock-offense he meant his face to show. “My feelings are hurt, Hosea.”

“Stop moaning, you’ll be fine. Your feelings are always so quick to recover.”

“They have to, with you around,” Dutch retorted, before lowering his voice to add conspiratorially, “and for the record, I was simply trying to trick you into accepting a race.”

“Ah, here’s the Dutch I know. Shall we?”

“After you, dearest.”

Hosea shook his head, lips curving upwards as he clicked his tongue to start a vigorous trot. Dutch followed suit, his smile unshakable despite the danger potentially tailing them. Rocks and bushes went by a little faster around them, slipping out of their focus as their gazes set on the next bend of the road, veering to the East in a soft curve. They maintained a relaxed posture on the saddle, making a point of keeping their back turned to the shadow following them.

Dutch had barely counted up to thirty seconds when he heard the sound of hooves hammering the ground with increasing speed.

“That was quick,” he noted, keeping his hands flexible on the reins.

“Well, now we know. Let’s get outta here,” Hosea urged, already rising above his saddle to push Diamond Ace into a gallop.

Dutch, however, felt content with maintaining that speed. “What’s the rush, old girl? Why don’t we wait a bit to get some proper fun from that race?”

Hosea’s forehead was hidden under the brim of his hat, but Dutch knew it was creased under its shade. “I suppose you equate bullets with fun.”

“Relax. He’s alone, and he ain’t gonna shoot at us, Hosea, we’re more valuable alive than dead on those posters.”

“Oh, glad you at least listened to _that_ advice about checking more often the exact terms of the bounties on our heads,” Hosea replied curtly.

The drumming of their pursuer’s gallop grew louder behind them.

Dutch smiled.

“How ‘bout the first to reach Knoxville pays for the room?”

Hosea clicked his tongue again. Dutch was perfectly aware the sound wasn’t only meant for his horse to speed up.

“You’re a goddamn idiot,” his partner hissed.

The panting of the stranger’s horse shook the air behind them, definitely too close for what would be the comfort of any respectable and prudent outlaw. Dutch had always considered themselves to be respectable enough in their practice of criminality. Prudence, on the other hand, was an entirely different matter. Just as luck and skills were.

“Do we have a deal, Matthews?” he insisted, offering Hosea a shit-eating grin as he pressed down his hat further onto his skull, bracing it for the upcoming acceleration already building up in Empress’s powerful legs.

“Yes, yes, whatever, you fool,” Hosea huffed.

“Hey, _misters!_ Can we talk for a second?”

Dutch snapped his head to look back behind them with raised eyebrows.

_Oh. Fast horse._

“Let’s get ourselves that race,” he shouted out, grin returning to his lips as he hollered a booming ‘ _hyah!_ ’ and kicked his horse’s flank in perfect sync with Hosea.

The two mounts bolted like cannonballs, feet kicking the dust into clouds as they propelled their bodies across the plain as if pursued by lightning itself.

He could feel the muscles of Empress’s shoulders roll under her fine black coat, their cords extending and contracting again and again as she pounded the old country path with the force of the wilderness still coursing through her blood, her strength beating the Earth itself into submission. The wind whipped his face like water splashed on cheeks at daybreak. His heart soared in his chest, beating in rhythm with the hooves of their steeds, each thump falling like Nature’s war drums. His eyes drifted to his right to steal a shard of this hazel light that could make red dawns and sunsets grow pale with envy. He caught the glint in Hosea’s eyes. The man’s lips, pressed and stretched in a scowl a second ago, were now curved in a subtle yet gracious arc, unplagued by the deep concentration Dutch knew to be wrapped around the muscles and tendons of his arms, back and thighs.

Dutch smiled at him with the blaze of a thousand burning stars.

As a response, Hosea urged Diamond Ace faster, plunging into the challenge with that streak of abandon he so desperately craved in this world whose constraints, both plain and unseen, blinded men to the wishes of their hearts and concealed their true natures to everyone, including themselves. Hosea poured the urgency in his heart into Diamond Ace’s ears. His body molded every jerk and push and pull and slide of his horse’s movements like the surface of the stream espoused its deep ferocious currents, absorbing speed rather than enduring it… Leaving the world behind because all shackles were meant to break eventually, and damn them all who forged them.

Empress was fast, faster than many prize horses sold to the wealthiest crowds.

But, not for the first time in his life, Dutch was quite simply stunned by the beauty of this man he had the immeasurable chance to call _‘partner’_.

It took him two blinks to realize Hosea had gained two heads on him, the sight melting his smile away to leave his mouth agape.

The man tilted his head in his direction and gave him that raised eyebrow of his.

“Less catchin’ flies, more hastenin’, maybe?”

There may have been urgency in the question, but mischief hadn’t quite left Hosea’s gaze.

Dutch spurred Empress’s flanks, a second and even more thunderous “ _hyah!_ ” inflaming his throat as his mare beat the ground with renewed tenacity and caught up with Diamond Ace, the hammering sound of their hooves all but shattering the voice that chased them.

“ _Damned_ _bast—_ “

Dutch’s glee remained intoxicating, but his ears couldn’t ignore how closer their pursuer kept getting. The comforting weight of his revolver felt warmer against his hip. Dutch frowned, then yelled in Empress’s ear again, knowing she had the speed of desert storms imprisoned in her legs.

They could outrun him. They could get away and not even fire a single shot.

And if they _had_ to shoot, _well…_

The unfocused shapes of trees and rock, even the grass itself dissolved into dashes of colors, like brush strokes swept on a canvas by a febrile and hasty hand. The natural cleft wrinkling the land slithered like a dark and wobbling shadow in the corner of his eye, always ahead of their horses’ snouts. Their horses’ manes whipped the air as they both leaned forward on their saddles, their mounts’ flanks throbbing and starting to sweat under their shins.

Another impatient scream tore through the sounds of their cavalcade. Furious, but growing weaker.

Dutch’s smile turned into a victorious grin.

“That’s my gir—”

A wisp of wind grazed his nose in a caress almost as gentle as it was unexpected. Then, before he could as much as blink, the air exploded out of his lungs, as if wrenched from his chest by an invisible hand while a ring of iron imprisoned his arms against his sides. His body was pulled back by a force he had no time to comprehend, yanking him from his saddle. Sky and earth swayed in his vision as he spun like an hourglass on its axis before all went black as pain erupted in his back and neck like rock splintering under the blows of a pickaxe.

“ _DUTCH!_ ”

His sight cleared both too slowly and too quickly, shapes and shades rolling behind a blurred veil as if he’d been plunged underwater. His ears were ringing, the ground was shaking with the pounding of hooves, and yet the scream had only been too clear, like a knife tearing through fabric. He could feel electric pain run from his elbow to his wrist, stones, and dirt grinding against the skin of his arm… His arm which he couldn’t move.

His gaze slid down his chest and stomach and fell on the choking tightness of a lasso.

He stared at the pale loop squeezing his chest and digging in the hollow of his elbows, confusion coating his awareness and somewhat dulling the ache that had spread in his whole body. His bewilderment crawled up his throat which could only croak out a disoriented ‘ _oh’_ before he heard a victorious cry:

“Gotcha, ya sonuvabitch!”

His pursuer—now his captor—bridged the three yards separating at breakneck speed, his horse’s hooves blowing dust in his face as it skidded to a stop.

_Damn fast horse._

Hosea’s voice rose again behind him.

Grinding his teeth, Dutch ignored the pang in his back and shoulders, and bent his knees, trying to prop and plant his feet firmly on the ground. When he failed to do so, he rolled on his side with a wince and a groan, straining his neck to look back at the source of the yell.

He saw Diamond Ace’s powerful limbs scrape the earth in a panicked sideslip, his forelegs already springing in his direction.

He saw a spatter of dust and rocks rise and smudge the air around his hooves, heard the crack of reins demanding more speed.

He saw Hosea’s face, pinched in alarm and anger, knowing his concealed eyes were blazing in the shadow of his hat.

He saw him raise his gun.

He also saw the second rider barge past the road bend they’d been about to cross, launched with the full weight of his massive gray horse.

The world had turned into a spiral of confusion and ache and anger, but that whirlwind collapsed in on itself instantly as Dutch’s blood froze in his veins.

“Hosea, _LOOK OUT!_ ”

His partner only had the time to throw the beginning of a glance over his shoulder when the bang of a bullet ripped through the dissonant pounding of hooves. Hosea yelped, and Dutch felt his vocal cords—still hot and raw from his scream—ossify in his throat as fear blossomed into full-blown panic.

He could see no blood. Guns, dust, and horses seemed to be suspended in time. Dutch’s eyes widened, searching Hosea’s face, now turned towards his attacker, hardened into an expression that Dutch could only partially draw in his mind. Hosea’s revolver remained aimed at the sky in a blind counterattack attempt, his elbow bent in a perfect right angle, like the petrified arm of statues of old, remaining still— _too still_ —in the face of the unstoppable threat propelled at him.

The second passed, and the world burst in the combined sounds of a second shot— _whose gun?_ —and the bone-breaking impact as the second bounty hunter failed to control the speed of his steed and collided right into Diamond Ace’s flank. Both men and horses screamed as each tried to maintain balance in the face of what all knew to be mortal danger.

Dutch’s senses were now too sharp. He folded his knees and fought against the bond circling his midsection, bent on springing to his feet and getting it off of him, only to be kicked in the stomach. He found himself on his back again before he was shoved by a second blow and rolled until he was lying flat on his front.

“Now you stay still, big boy, and I won’t need to hurt ya too bad.”

The voice was oily, dripping like bile into his ears as a hand closed on his right arm, locking it behind his back. He felt a hot breath splash on his neck, warm with a barely contained snicker. He could still hear the panicked neighs of the horses as his whirling thoughts morphed into a strict and unbreakable line of purpose. His jaw and core tightened while his hands balled into fists.

“That’s it, now be a good boy an—”

Ignoring the protest of his back and neck, Dutch bucked against his assailant’s grip, arching his spine with all the force he could find in his center and throwing his head back until it connected with the bounty hunter’s face. A loud crack vibrated against the back of his skull upon impact, followed by a painful yelp. Dutch didn’t wait for the hunter to pull himself together. He rolled once more unto his flank and folded his knees under his stomach, spreading his thighs to secure his balance as he sat back on his heels, shaking against the lasso and straining his wrist for his gun.

His eyes frantically scanned around him until they fell on the on-going struggle opposing Hosea and his attacker. Both were still on their saddles as their mounts kicked, spun, and hammered the ground. Hosea was holding the rider’s wrist above his head. The man—twice as tall and large as the one who’d lassoed Dutch, face buried under the coarse bush of his hair and beard—was himself keeping Hosea’s arm low, preventing him from pointing the canon at his body. Hosea was nimble, quick, and stronger than fool men anticipated him to be, but Dutch knew, in this split second when his eyes caught sight of the struggle as he pushed on his knees to stand up, that the fight would be over as soon as the man would regain some balance… which neither could do at the moment, as Diamond Ace and that monster of a horse seemed tangled tethered to each other by their flanks. Perhaps it was by their stirrup straps, or a saddle’s weapon case, or the saddlebags. Dutch had only so much time to conjecture, as the two horses, still spinning around each other, kept thrashing and side-stepping, constantly pulling and pushing the other while their riders fought to keep each other from aiming their guns as their mounts’ dance let them off the road…

… towards the precipice.

Dutch’s hand finally closed on the grip of his revolver. His temples were pulsing in panicked beats, covering the scared cries of the horses. His eyes were already training on Hosea’s opponent, waiting for his arm to follow their lead, only to be confronted with the unbearable sensation of seconds passing too fast and his body moving too slow. His second hand finally managed to wriggle out of the lasso and push it down his waist. The canon of his revolver flashed under the light of the sun right when he felt a shadow glide over his skin.

His heart skipped a beat as all his instincts hollered him to look back, ignoring the blaring concern in his mind which spelled Hosea’s name, but his wrist couldn’t flick fast enough to properly target the first hunter, who now had his revolver raised at him. The man, as tall as he was, was hiding a grimace of pain and fury under a splash of blood and a trembling hand. His aiming hand was shaking, unable to find a clear focus through the blood.

The shot grazed his sleeves like the edge of a knife as he plunged to the ground, the bullet contained in the chamber of his revolver wasted in a reflex shot triggered by his fall. He landed on his shoulder, repressed a growl as he summoned all the steadiness he could muster to aim a proper shot. His effort was thwarted by the body of his attacker colliding against his, his breath sorely expelled from his lungs by a bended knee. He kept his grip on his revolver, but skinny fingers had already closed on his wrist and taken advantage of the crucial second when Dutch was too busy trying to drag oxygen back in his chest. He felt a sudden and acute burn in his shoulder as his arm was forced behind his back. Still, he didn’t let go of his gun. He swung his legs to fight against the weight of his opponent who was trying to straddle his waist, managing to get himself on his flank while his left foot connected with an ankle. He threw back his elbow, wrestling like a cornered street rat. The blow did catch the hunter in what Dutch assumed to be his chest, dragging a rattled groan out of him. He pushed on his knees to roll onto his back and face the man as his arm finally escaped his grip. A smile was beginning to stretch Dutch’s lips as his forefinger brushed the trigger of his gun, ready to blow the hunter to kingdom come, only to be erased when a fist smashed into smacked the gun out of his hand. There was no bullet wasted to the wind this time.

The hunter punched his left cheek, then his right. Dutch only had the time to throw a punch of his own, which barely hit the man’s shoulder, before he found himself spun and flattened onto his stomach once more.

“Don’t make me kill you, you vermin. You stay still or I’ll make sure you won’t be able to use one of yer arms no more!”

“You _goddamn—_ ”

A deafening, air-splitting shot stole the growl from his throat.

The sound of panicked horses, which had dissolved and become twisted during their brawl, hit Dutch’s eardrums with the force of a storm. His neck could have snapped from the speed with which he turned his gaze towards the source of the commotion, tendons taut like the string of a bow and eyes wide with dread. When they found what they were desperately looking for, dread turned into blood-stopping horror.

Diamond Ace and the enormous pale horse were still locked together, their riders still struggling to stop the other from using his gun. The ground was shaking, the horses’ legs now dancing only a few feet from the open chasm on the side of the path.

A spark of pain flared in the middle of his back as the bounty hunter snarled and kept him pinned there. The jolt was enough to light up a fire that snuffed out every other concern. Its flames spread in each of his muscles, committing them to the sole task of fighting against the hold that kept him so _useless_ on the ground and forced him to witness a spectacle that he knew could haunt his nights for _months, years, who knew how long_. His blood was beating his skin like the whip on the rump of a horse, scraping the inside of his throat and clawing at his eyes as he stretched and stirred and wrenched himself to fend off his assailant, picturing himself racing towards the horses before the inconceivable had a chance to happen.

But the weight remained firm and unshakable on his back and his wrists. It ignored the kicking and thrashing of his legs and the tempest locked inside his body. There was a tempest in his voice too as he roared Hosea’s name with every fiber of strength he possessed.

Another gunshot joined the tumult of grunts and whinnies—Dutch’s heart throbbed as if hit by its echo. Hosea’s opponent had been the one to fire this time. The shot was followed by a frightening, ripping sound when the hunter’s gigantic horse began to buck. Dutch stared as Diamond Ace finally freed himself from the entanglement and sidestepped to safety while Hosea sprang onto the man’s saddle at the exact same time, managing to maintain a shaky grip on his firing arm as he attempted to maintain himself upright behind him. The man couldn’t maintain his hold on Hosea’s wrist, but shoved back his elbow right into his stomach, depriving him of his breath. He didn’t even see how close to the precipice they were.

Hosea couldn’t scream, and so Dutch screamed for him.

He had no idea what triggered the next shot, if it was deliberate or came from the accidental spasm of a finger as the two men wrestled with each other.

But the shot was fired anyway.

The horse reared up, too fast, too panicked.

There were no screams other than that of the animal.

The force trapping Dutch where he was felt nothing in comparison to the crushing weight of _time_ , of that one second turning into a millennium, as he watched all three of them fall down the crevasse.

The next gust of wind took all the fight out of his body.

His eyes remained open, staring into that distance which stared back like a million piercing needles, that distance where _he_ had been a second ago… Just a second ago…

Dutch stared, and stared, and _stared_.

There was a thing in his chest knocking against his bones, a wild beast trying to break free from its cage, mauling his insides in rhythmic strikes.

Dutch stared.

The remote mountains stared back. So did the chasm.

 _He was there… just a second ago… just a second_ —

The chasm expanded, some ugly hungry eye or all-seeing mouth, gaping at him, calling for the beast inside him, swallowing his thoughts already, swallowing his eyes, his mind, _his—_

_He’s gone._

“Jesus Christ, that idiot. Damn. Damn _idiot!_ _Shit!_ …Shit, it’s just you and me, boy. Guess I still get my share, since I got you alone for myself.”

He was gone.

He was _gone_.

And that filthy, rotten sack of shit was _talking._

He didn’t realize that the raw, animalistic roar that shook nature all the way to the Appalachians had come from his chest. But he felt and heard the man’s wrist snap in a sick popping sound when he jerked his two arms free as if they’d been invested by the wrath of God himself.

He bucked under him like an enraged bull. The lead of the body that had been straddling him was reduced to the weight of a feather. His fingers clawed at the bastard’s arm and neck as he threw him on his back, digging into the skin, searching for the bone. A metallic clatter came from somewhere, _everywhere_ , loud until it wasn’t, swallowed by the stifled gasp of the man whose pulse dared to beat so hard and loud under his palm.

A stream of heartbeats hurling at his skin, like so many blasphemies.

His heart and not _his._

_— - kill you, **I’m** gonna kill you, I’m **gonna** kill you, I’M GONNA **KILL** YOU I’M GONNA KILL **YOU** I’M G- — _

Dutch barely felt the kick, but the man managed to extricate his wrist all the same, his hand already diving for something.

Dutch saw the silver flash of a blade. He rammed his head into the man’s skull, drank the cracking sound that resulted from the impact, and shot his arm to grab the fallen knife.

A blow connected with his jaw, but it was clumsy and crude. Dutch’s fist split open his cheekbone.

Blood splattered his knuckles, but the knife was gone. Lying in the dust, dirty and _waiting_ , waiting for him to set this man’s flesh and veins ablaze.

When his outstretched fingers closed on dirt in his renewed attempt to grab the weapon, he failed to prevent his enemy’s next blow to aim true, as it caught him right under the jaw, forcing his head back. A thumb pushed mercilessly into the dip of his collarbone while four fingers clutched the junction between his neck and shoulder, pushing him off. His knee found floating ribs as his back was once more thrown onto the ground. The man stretched his whole length on top of him, fingers clasped on his neck while his other hand reached for the prize Dutch hadn’t been able to seize. His fingers scratched at the man’s neck and face. Twisted lips spit and snarled at him as the hand moved from his neck to the side of his face.

“I’ll cut you, you son of a bitch! Send you join your friend down in hell!’

Dirt and pebbles scratched the skin of his cheek and temple as he jerked, whipped by the current of fury unleashed in his blood. The war drums of his heart sang to his mind, blinding him to everything but the vision of that goddamn horse falling from the edge, his colossal mass hiding _his face_ as _he_ —

A beat.

And a beat.

And a beat.

And a beat.

_Tear._

_his._

_heart._

_**out**._

He bit into the hand, digging his teeth deep into the junction between thumb and forefinger. The howl that came from the man’s throat was consumed by the one that climbed out of his own as he thurst himself up.

There was a white flash, and fire licked the inside of his left forearm. He clasped his hand around the wrist holding the knife that had barely missed his heart, extending the arm of his opponent as they stood on their knees, face to face, like twin statues reaching for the sun in some horrific joined prayer.

Pure, flesh-twisting hatred distorted the hunter’s expression.

The monster thrashing and devouring Dutch’s insides found it _laughable_.

Bony fingers, like the talons of a sick bird of prey, shot for his neck again, their nails squeezing his flesh as if meaning to rip off his throat rather than choke his windpipe.

He didn’t feel any of it. His skin was but a stranger to his own mind. If his eyes saw, all images were but ghosts of sensations, fleeting information swallowed and digested into pure, hungry instinct. His nerves had melted, leaving him with _nothing_.

The only thing he could feel was the beast inside.

Asking for more blood than what was boiling in his veins.

The cracking of bones snapped through the air. The hunter’s eyes rolled until they were white. His wrist went limp in the hot iron of Dutch’s grasp, and the blad fell to the ground in a dulled metallic ting. The hand on his throat was gone, and the bastard fell flat on his back, belly and throat exposed to a sky that would not protect him.

Dutch’s hand closed on the weapon while his body plunged and pinned the hunter to the ground in the same, swift movement.

The blade cut through his throat like wind cut through foliage.

Humid heat sprayed his front, and a river of red flowed at the center of his vision.

A dark, crimson line, cutting through his mind, making the beast inside him roar in a mixture of satisfaction and pain.

The line stretched like the burning line of the horizon at sunset, then widened into a dark, crimson pool under a spasming, blurry frame that his eyes couldn’t focus on. The silhouette twitched under him, shaking in a grotesque stream of gurgles. The sounds were dying in Dutch’s ears, buried under a ringing that seemed to come from inside. He blinked once. Sharp contours chased the blurriness away, and a deformed, almost absurd expression met his gaze. Eyes wide like those of an agonizing deer, unable to see. Lips contorted in hateful curves as they vainly strained for air. Blood flooding that slit only a few inches below, a ridge trembling with each new breath.

_Breathing._

_Still breathing._

Dutch wasn’t sure _he_ was.

Slowly, almost mechanically, the hand that had been holding the knife— _when had he dropped it?_ —hovered and came to rest over the opened throat, not even squeezing. He was distantly aware of this creature made of pain and flames that jolted inside him with each new spasm of that throat. Soon, his eyes were as wide as the man losing his blood under him.

He tightened his hold just enough to feel that pulsation against his palm. If he tightened just a little more, he could stop the flow throbbing against his hand. Another convulsion had his hand constrict the shivering neck further. Soon, he was wringing the flesh with all the strength contained in his fingers, sinking his nails in the coat of blood now covering the entirety of that neck, squeezed it harder _, harder_ … then released it.

He leaned back on his heels… and watched, as life slowly, _painfully_ streamed out of that man while the monster inside him feasted on that sight.

He watched.

And watched.

Like he’d watched _Hosea_ fall down that cliff.

His next breath scorched his throat as the name cut through the black haze of his mind.

He felt the erratic rhythm of the hunter’s spasms slow to a stop. He saw the pale, horrific grimace etched on that face, its milky eyes staring into eternity. He smelled the blood, felt the sticky air pool down his lungs.

He watched, as the puddle of crimson kept expanding under the body, a red so deep it turned black under his own trembling shadow. A pupil staring right back at him.

He breathed again.

Filling his lungs with oxygen felt more painful than leaving them to crumple onto themselves. A tremor shook his limbs and spread until his breathing turned erratic, each intake a necklace of thorns raking down his throat and chest.

He couldn’t blink, couldn’t look away. His eyes burned as if he’d forced them to stare at the sun for too long. Invisible fingers kept his eyelids wide open, forcing him to _look_ , planting shards in his eyeballs as he _looked_ , powerless, alone with himself and what he’d done and—

Was it sweat or blood pouring into his eyes? So much blood, everywhere, this horror mask bathing in a black pool, his _hands_ …

His hands were _so_ red.

Trembling and closing on nothing but that sticky red.

Nothing but—

Nothing.

_Jesus Christ._

He wished he could have shut his eyes, would have given _everything_ just to escape that vision summoned from a nightmare that must have been conjured by the mind of someone else…

He wished it so hard that a whimper escaped his throat, followed by bile that coated the back of his tongue. His chest heaved, caught between nausea and a sob.

He bent over on his left and spilled the contents of his stomach onto the ground. He gagged as his lungs pleaded for more air, which only fed the blaze gnawing at his insides as he retched again.

He choked on his own vomit, again and again. He kept coughing until the pain finally became too much and forced his eyes shut, trading the bliss of oblivion for the throbbing ache of his body turning against itself.

He barely had the time to treasure this deceiving respite when he got crushed by an even more horrifying vision, this time a product of memory.

Hosea fighting.

A gun firing.

Hosea falling.

Disappearing.

_Gone._

He was alone. Smeared in blood and sick and horror, _alone_.

And he couldn’t breathe anymore.

He could hear the shot. The horse’s scream.

He tried to crawl away. His fingers clawed at the ground, driving into the dry soil. He was choking again.

_Dutch…_

Another sob rose in his chest, only to be squashed by the vise constricting his lungs.

_Dutch._

His eyes remained shut, refusing to take in a world where this voice would never be anything more than the smoke of memories burning his mind.

_DUTCH!_

Needles pierced his shoulders as a sudden force whirled him around, making him almost fall sideward.

“Dearest, please, look at me. It’s me, I’m here. Look at me.”

He felt warmth on his skin. A vibration in the air. A palm against his cheek.

“Please _._ ”

_Oh please, God, let it be real._

He opened his eyes and stared.

Hosea was staring back.

“Good man. You need to breathe, Dutch.”

His lips were thin yet trying to draw a tentative smile on a face pinched with concern. His eyebrows were knitted, curved upward on his forehead, not shaded by any hat. His pale blond hair, sullied by dust, bent softly under the caress of an imperceptible breeze. And his _eyes…_

“Dutch, _breathe_ , come on.”

His eyes were _real_. Hazel as golden as autumn’s dawn.

“ _H—Hosea?_ ”

His own voice was so foreign to him, a remote and strangled thing. He wasn’t sure he’d even spoken. He had to say his name again:

“ _Hosea_ , you—”

“I’m here,” Hosea repeated, and _God,_ his voice was real too. “It’s alright, but I’m begging you, Dutch, if you don’t breathe, I’m gonna lose it.”

He tried. His mouth opened wider, but something seemed to have lodged itself in his throat, as if his stomach, fighting against him, had risen up to choke him. He tried again, feeling the scorching heat of Hosea’s hand on his cheek.

“You—,” he managed to choke out. “You’re…”

His sentence died like the flame of a candle, muffled by the weight of his failing lungs and his reeling mind which tried so desperately to find an anchor. His hands rose of their own, two direct extensions of that urge that clouded all other instincts. Hosea let go of his face, welcoming his crushing embrace in the safety of his arms. Air flooded down Dutch’s throat when their chests collided. His heart was thumping like a stampede of bison, beating against his ribcage as if trying to shatter it. He didn’t know if it took one or thirty minutes for it to slow down as his eyes kept staring into mid-distance while Hosea held the back of his neck and offered his ears the comfort of encouraging whispers. He listened to them, let the rhythm of Hosea’s heart guide his while his lungs gradually absorbed oxygen until he had enough to form that one sentence that would seal reality for good:

“ _You’re alive_.”

He felt Hosea’s cheek rub against his skin as a smile painted his reply:

“I am. It’s okay.”

The sour memory of Dutch’s own bile assaulted his tongue like the real thing, making him clutch Hosea tighter. His fist closed on his shirt, almost tearing the fabric at the seams of his shoulder. The skin under it felt like a miracle.

Gentle fingers carded through his hair and climbed higher on the back of his skull.

“Hey. It’s okay,” Hosea repeated. “We’re okay. We’re okay.”

“H—How… I thought you were…”

“I love to surprise my audience.”

The joke tinkled in the air like wind chimes for a second, but the note soon turned off-key, drowned in the slash of steel and death rattles still ringing in Dutch’s ears. He almost gagged on his next breath.

Hosea strengthened his hold the next second.

“I’m sorry,” he hastily exhaled, his voice back to a murmur. “It’s okay.”

But Dutch was already pulling free, leaning back to stare and take in the vision of Hosea being there, Hosea breathing, Hosea _talking_ to him, when all that his mind had been able to conjure up a minute ago was the dark hole filled by his absence. His fingers clung to Hosea’s biceps, seeking the reassurance of the lean and sturdy muscles, willing to bury into them the shaking of his own arms, holding with all the force of the shock that had replaced the red, warm blood in his veins.

Blood.

_It was…_

Dutch blinked, shook his head. There was blood on Hosea’s neck.

“How did you— Hosea, I saw you _fall_ ,” he quavered.

Hosea’s eyes followed the frantic trail left by Dutch’s on his body, seemingly intact, but covered by clothes now covered in dust and torn up in various places. He could have been one of those cowboys drawn on book covers and sold for a dime to people in search of the thrill of a Wild West they so ferociously dreamed about in the safety of their innocence and fear.

“I did fall alright,” Hosea said, his eyes trying to hook back Dutch’s gaze while he looked for any trace of major injury, any broken bone… or any further evidence that reality had decided to be merciful. “Was just lucky enough to snatch an old root and a good hold, and not have my feet stuck in stirrups, contrary to that son of a bitch’s good friend,” he explained, nodding towards the corpse just behind Dutch. His brow creased slightly at the sight. “You, you alright?” he asked, his voice more somber, fingers reaching for Dutch’s jaw after his eyes failed to catch his focus. “Dutch? Are you hurt?”

Dutch finally looked back at him, steadying his arms as he sank his gaze into Hosea’s. A shadow of dread was cloaking that hazel he loved so dearly.

“I’m not, I’m—,” he stammered, then swallowed. “Christ Hosea, _you_ ask _me_ if I’m alright? You fell off a _goddamn_ cliff!”

His voice cracked on the last sentence, as if at least one part of his body had to fail him whenever he managed to submit another back under his control, like the punchline of a bad joke.

“I didn’t really, and I climbed back alright,” Hosea all but dismissed. The casualness of his voice sounded so discordant to Dutch’s ear, like the words carried a weight that Hosea’s tone couldn’t quite lift. “Seems like you had quite a fight on your side, on the other hand. Now, are you stubborn mule gonna tell me if you’re hurt or not?”

“Hosea, I’m _fine._ ”

His voice was too trembling for it to snap. Hosea’s fingers were already checking his arms and sides, his eyes widening as if he’d only caught on the state Dutch was in.

“Where are you bleeding from? Show me,” he urged, voice as adamant and sharp as the blade of a knife.

Dutch threw a glance behind him before Hosea gently but firmly turned his face back to him, searching for both wounds and honesty.

A detached part of him wondered where the knife was. _When_ had he dropped the knife? _When had he_ —

There was blood on Hosea’s neck.

A thick, vertical band, draping his skin on the left side like a ribbon.

Hosea’s voice grew taut with contained alarm. “Dutch, I’m serious, dammit, where—”

“You’re bleeding.” Hosea blinked at him, but his fingers kept probing, unperturbed. Dutch snatched his wrists away and held them tight. Hosea’s gaze fell on Dutch’s hands and stayed there. “You’re bleeding,” Dutch said again, voice low, no longer shaking.

“It’s nothing,” Hosea countered, too nonchalantly.

A spark of anger lit up in Dutch’s chest, like wood cracking in a fire. “Cut the bullshit, Hosea.”

“Dutch, you—”

“YOU NEARLY _DIED_ , _GODDAMMIT!_ ”

The words came out like a wounded howl, spreading through the air with the violence of a gunshot. The world around them was but a still life, frozen in a silence that only seemed to open the fissure in the ground wider, like the jaws of hell itself, feeding on the broken echo of his voice.

It took Dutch one second too long to realize his chest was heaving up and down again. Hosea was as still as the eons-old mountains, his eyes both shielded and penetrating.

“Dutch,” Hosea breathed out after a few more seconds, and his voice was so calm, so gentle, woven in the same patience as possessed by the Appalachian summits. “There’s blood all over your hands.”

Dutch’s eyes followed Hosea’s words even though a voice buried deep inside the trenches of his mind suddenly rose and begged him not to. The instinct to run to God knew where ran down his spine in a cascade of shivers, but he remained on his knees, eyes fixed on his crimson fingers.

Hosea’s voice remained soft while Dutch remained quiet, “I need to know where you’re hurt.”

Dutch blinked several times, waiting to see if each moment he closed and opened his eyes again would reawaken that shiver. But the shiver was gone.

“It’s not mine,” he said, with a clear voice and a tone as neutral as truth could be. “It’s not mine.”

A shimmer of comprehension flashed in Hosea’s hazels, which faded as they focused on the crimson pooled near Dutch’s feet.

“He’s dead,” Dutch said, and he wanted to laugh at the absurd obviousness of his words.

But there was blood on his hands and shirt and _Hosea’s neck._

He lifted his right hand to reach for the small horizontal gash he could now see right under the line of Hosea’s jaw but stopped himself as he saw the crimson on his fingers glisten under the rays of the sun. There was no doubt Hosea had seen it too, yet his gaze was uncharacteristically evasive, locked on Dutch’s shirt as he inspected his front one last time.

“Hosea, your neck.”

The conman’s eyebrows pinched downward before rising high on his forehead. He pressed the side of his throat and briefly glanced at the red smudge left on his palm.

“Ain’t nothing, it’s a scratch.”

“Did he do this to you?”

“I must have bruised myself when I slipped while I was climbing. Ain’t nothing,” he repeated.

_‘Slipped’._

Dutch’s heartbeat got sluggish inside his ribcage, burdened by a sensation that wasn’t too remote from the nausea that had seized him only a few minutes ago. Something in him rebelled at the sensation, a ghost of anger left by the primal creature that had nearly devoured him. His mind latched onto it, like a quivering hand would dive for a revolver in the dark as invisible threats came nearer and panic sank deeper.

“Why _didn’t you call_ for me?” he croaked, his voice too raw.

Hosea searched through the right pocket of his duster coat, retrieving the turquoise ascot he’d buried inside it a few hours prior as mild temperatures had turned warm under the auspicious sky. He unfolded it with a whip of the wrist before meeting Dutch’s stare. The liquid amber of his eyes could have submerged the deep brown of his own irises a thousand times. Stern concern pooled in the gold of his gaze, eroding the cutting edge of Dutch’s thoughts in an instant, leaving him only with that weight in his chest he needed to expel. When Hosea lowered his eyes to look back at Dutch’s hands and wipe the blood off his fingers with the ascot, the weight became ice as his fear whispered him Hosea’s reply before the man even uttered it:

“I did call for you.”

There was a noise stuck in Dutch’s throat as he blinked furiously.

“No, I…”

His legs hitched with the burning urge to bolt away from this place. But Hosea’s hands were folded around his, brushing his fingers in firm and regular sweeping motions.

“No,” he tried again, “I would have heard you.”

“You was too busy with that fella. Don’t worry about it.”

Dutch’s lips parted to protest once more, but the weight of the realization that had dawned on him stilled his tongue.

Shame was a tenacious thing.

He saw himself fending off the bounty hunter’s attacks, reaching for his knife, slicing his throat open to wash the soil with his blood. He saw himself staring in petrified silence as the man bled dry under him, twisting in spasms of pain and confusion and fear as all power was wrenched away from him with each pulsation of his heart. And Dutch had watched _every second_ of it for what could only have been several precious _minutes_ , detached from everything save that morbid contemplation that made him sick with himself.

He had _watched_ , soaked himself with blood… He hadn’t listened.

And no matter how he tried to turn, twist, and overturn the unfolding of events, Hosea had damn near paid the price for it.

The ice inside him melted into something coarse and acidic. His stomach heaved again, and he bent leftward, a dry gargle clawing out of his chest only to dissolve in a dry cough, having nothing more but spit to expel from his mouth.

He closed his eyes and focused on breathing. Each intake brought back to the front of his mind a voice from the past he usually made a point of leaving to rest like dust at the back of a drawer. With nearly eight years of absence and distance separating the two of them, the memory of his mother’s voice still had no trouble stinging its way back to the surface. The echo of his own voice, which had recalled her words earlier in almost childish casualness, mocked him for his illusory certainties and naive arrogance.

_‘Revenge is a fool’s game.’_

He’d called it ‘one of her few valuable lessons’. He’d thought he’d learned and understood it, emboldened by the years spent alone beyond the confines of this shack she’d called home, proud to have tasted the pulp of the world, relishing his own defiance and wearing it like a badge of wisdom.

Yet there he was, on his knees, reeking of blood, sick and shame.

He didn’t know _shit_.

He felt a gentle pressure on his shoulder, pushing him back onto his heels and away from his thoughts. Cotton wiped the junction of his neck and chest. He wrapped his hand around the wrist holding the now ruined neckerchief, looked up, and drowned all the noise raging in his skull into compassionate hazel.

“Hosea…,” he whispered, and he was surprised the sound that came out of him was deep and even instead of a trembling whine.

“It’s over.”

“The bounty hunter, I killed him, but—“

“I know. Look at me.”

And so Dutch did, pouring in his look the words that were burning his tongue when he’d prided himself so often about making them as smooth as silk.

_I never killed nobody that way before._

Hosea’s hand was on the back of his neck, and Dutch knew he’d been heard, like all of those times he’d needed Hosea to hear him in the thick of their silence.

“I _know_ ,” he simply replied.

They both waited until their breathings aligned. Dutch felt steadiness swoop down his lungs, and it soon coursed through his entire body once again. He held to that sense of regained control with an iron grip. A satisfied spark shone in Hosea’s eyes, and Dutch nodded. The conman stretched himself back up with a groan at his signal and offered him his hand. “Come on, we need to get our asses outta here.”

Dutch took it, and sprang to his feet with a vigor he didn’t feel he had but welcomed in silent relief. Hosea left his ruined and crumpled ascot in his hand, now more red than green. He didn’t have to make a dejected noise to obtain a reaction from Hosea.

“You’ll just steal me a new one. Better be a fine one,” he quipped with a smile as reassuring as it was challenging.

Dutch returned the gesture, determined to soothe the lines of concern still etched in the corners of the man’s eyes. “If it’s too fine, I might just keep it for myself,” he answered, pleased to notice his voice had found again the usual firmness attached to his baritone.

Hosea gave him a fond and playful click of the tongue, before watching over the road to locate their horses.

As Dutch strained his neck to follow suit and found Empress waiting by the distant curve of the road, he made sure not to spare a look at the corpse lying on the ground. He suppressed any vision his mind would seek to impose on him by focusing on his mare, who was already cantering towards him the moment they made eye contact, bless the loyal girl. Diamond Ace was nowhere in sight, but a loud and sharp whistle from Hosea was all it took to make him appear from behind the turn Empress had come from. He advanced in slow steps, but a second whistle from Hosea’s lips soon convinced him that his master had made it back from the deadly struggle the stallion himself had nearly succumbed to, prompting him into an energetic trot.

“Attaboy,” he exhaled. “Good horses. We need to get them some treats before the train tomorrow.”

Dutch hummed, letting his gaze stroke Empress’s coat as she approached him, letting out a loud neigh which he chose to interpret as a grateful scolding. His fingers sank into her mane when she finally stopped, holding the thick black locks tighter and longer than he intended as he patted her neck.

“I know. Sorry, my lady,” he murmured into her ear as she pressed the side of her face against his. The dust of the road was hardly enough to mitigate the lustre of her dark coat. The rays of the sun painted lazy pale arcs and loops along her muscles, making her black hair shine in copper hues. Hidden from any glance that Hosea could have thrown his way behind the wall of Empress’s neck, Dutch shut his eyes tight one final time, burying scorching visions of bodies drowning in dark blood and falling from cliffs in a mental pit he willed as black as Empress’s mane. He opened them again when the only scent left in his nose was Empress’s smell.

“We need to find a river or a pond someplace. Better clean ourselves up before we get there, unless we want a whole city gettin’ a bit too curious and breathing down our necks,” he stated, his voice deep and steady as he stuck a foot in his stirrup and hoisted himself upon the saddle. The soreness of blows and cuts he’d reaped during his fight against the bounty hunter was starting to prickle his nerves as he threw his leg over Empress’s back. He shut it out, keeping his mouth closed as he took the reins in one hand.

Hosea was looking at him, already perched on his saddle, his back as straight as a church’s bell tower, as if he hadn’t almost plummeted to his death while locked in a brutal wrestling contest with a man twice his size. His shoulders were relaxed, and his grip on Diamond Ace’s reins slack, every inch of him projecting an aura of casualness.

Dutch knew better. He knew those eyes too well for having stared at them too often. For all his attempts at convincing himself and the world that caring was a laborious task for him, Hosea sure had trouble concealing his worry, or at least, had yet to learn not to make it plain to read for Dutch.

He ignored the question Hosea didn’t want to ask and set his gaze back on the road.

“Let’s get out of here,” he drawled.

Their horses didn’t need the prick of spurs to comply, all too eager to bolt from a place still pervaded by the scent of their anxiety.

A full hour still separated them from the outskirts of Knoxville, according to Dutch’s memories of the map Hosea had unrolled before him in the morning. He’d come to consider an hour spent riding at Hosea’s side merely a drop in the sea of time; Dutch often felt he could travel across half the country and feel as if only a morning had passed, provided he would spend that time engaging in some endless discussion about one of those books he couldn’t put down—Hosea may have come to regret ever gifting him Miller’s _American Eden_ —or lost in the scatterbrain twists of one of Hosea’s colorful anecdotes that only a conman such as he could ever come to live through; these stories would so often conclude with the both of them slapping their thighs as they’d let out roars of laughter that would shake the birds out of their nests. There remained, of course, the possibility of wrapping themselves in the silence they had come to cherish as the purest manifestation of their comfort around each other, a blanket that would unknot their muscles and clear their pipes, allowing them to observe the land around them with a sharper eye and a keener mind, and treasure all the chances of Nature that one too frequently took for granted.

Their current silence, however, bore none of the sweet tastes or warm colors that Dutch had grown so accustomed to since the fateful day when Hosea had agreed to follow him. His head was high, and his eyes were unwavering, but the hard lines connecting his shoulders to his neck only grew tauter with each passing minute.

The eccentricity of the landscape which had stricken him when they’d set on that road—where the prairie seemed unable to choose between the comforting flatness of cultivable plateaus and the impressive asperities of a land that had been dug, broken and squeezed by forces beyond the understanding of men—now went past his eyes like shapeless reflections sliding on the surface of a windowpane. He kept his head slightly turned to the left, refusing to let his eyes peer at the crack he knew ran by the road for yet another mile. Sounds hit his eardrums like the muffled echo of a broken gramophone, playing the same tune on a loop. Hosea’s gaze was heavy, white-hot iron pressed against the skin of his back instead of a warm caress.

Empress quickened her trot under the silent command of his legs as he quashed the anxious prickling in the tips of his fingers with a firmer grip on his reins. Yet, time seemed bent on slowing down at each of his attempts to make it pass faster, itching his skin like rough fabric made heavier by a quietness which his detached questions to Hosea about the terrain and their itinerary couldn’t lighten. Hosea answered them in his clear, inviting tone, the one that he’d use to coax him out of his musings when he stared into the fire for too long at the end of the day, either to evoke the benefits of rest or… simply remind Dutch that he was not alone anymore.

He didn’t know how little time had passed when the cutting ‘tsk” of a tongue had the muscles of his neck grow tenser. Hosea was now at his level, eyes looking forward as he asked:

“You okay?”

“Sure. You?”

His reply had fled his mouth too quick. Hosea put an end to that previous indulgence of not looking Dutch in the eye and peered at him with an incredulity made all the stronger by that damn clairvoyance of his. Dutch held his gaze, waiting for the reply that he hoped would be enough to redirect Hosea’s concern and attention.

“A little sore but yeah,” the conman eventually relented, looking back at the road. “Just remind me to warm myself up next time I decide to go climbing is all.”

Dutch hid his wince as best as he could by looking in the opposite direction. His heart skipped a beat when he remembered the precipice, but the crevasse that scarred the earth as much as his recent memories was nowhere to be seen, replaced by smooth terrain as the road engaged in a slight decline. He repressed a sigh of relief at the sight of bushes and uninterrupted expanses of tall grass.

He couldn’t quite conceal a jolt when Hosea rested a hand on his shoulder. If he’d seen it, his partner didn’t show it, as his gaze invited Dutch to look further down the plains. Only then did he notice the small river shooting across the land like the trail of a falling star, not too far from their path.

“There it is,” Hosea said, not probing his reaction but simply keeping his stare ahead.

The river was a humble thing. Too generous to be called a brook, it nevertheless was too shallow to offer a strong current. Its water was a gauzy veil that easily let the rays of the sun reach the bottom, revealing the green-covered stones shrouding its bed in exchange for a sparse but radiant glimmer. Dutch let his gaze wander down the stream, following its curves towards what he knew to be their destination.

There would be the town. A hotel room, then a station. Then the West. Different skies and different lands, places where his thoughts would be his again and not chasms to trip and fall into.

“You need to clean that up, Dutch.”

He didn’t look down at his still crimsoned hands but back at Hosea. The light blond of his hair looked almost white under the direct light of the sun. Thoughts lingered on his tongue just as long as his eyes lingered on his pale locks before he swallowed them down. The subtle, encouraging smile that had tugged at Hosea’s lips when he’d caught sight of the river faded as he turned around to face the stream again. Dutch’s next heartbeat felt like a nail driven in his flesh and his lips moved of their own.

“Hosea, your hat.”

He didn’t know how he hadn’t noticed its absence prior; Hosea’s uncovered head was the starkest contrast to the shadowed face protected by the flat brim of his black hat, the same hat he’d been wearing on the night they met.

Hosea blinked and combed his hair with his fingers as if he hadn’t even been aware it was no longer there.

“Oh. Must have fallen off,” he simply replied, his hand dropping to his side and taking the weight of the matter down with it. His eyes, however, searched Dutch’s for something he couldn’t quite identify. A response, probably. One that would carry what Dutch truly wanted to say behind his observing the loss of Hosea’s hat.

“Yeah,” was the only answer he could drawl out.

Hosea stared some more, then let it go, releasing a breath Dutch hadn’t seen him holding. He heeled Diamond Ace forward at a walking pace. Dutch’s eyes were fixed on his pale golden hair, as the weight of sickness pressed against the bottom of his stomach once more. Then his eyes fell on his shoulders and back, and the weight only grew heavier when they took in the small red blotches and smudges painted over Hosea’s coat. His own bloody handprints burned the fabric and his retinas alike as that distant part of his brain wondered, like for Hosea’s hat, why he hadn’t seen them before.

God, they _needed_ to leave.

The wisp of a touch grazed his thigh. He couldn’t repress the sudden jerk of his neck as he looked down to see a frowning Hosea staring at him by Empress’s side.

“Hey. We’re there, we should…,” he started, then closed his mouth. Dutch’s eyes slid back up God knew how many seconds later, taking in the river they had finally reached without him noticing. When they looked back down, the line of Hosea’s pressed lips got thinner as he abandoned all pretense to conceal his unease to accommodate Dutch.

“Talk to me,” he urged, his hand sliding down to Dutch’s knee and stopping there, his palm molding the roundness of his joint.

The flutter of the wings of a bird he couldn’t see was enough of a pretext to have his eyes trail away and pretend to search for its source.

“I’m alright, Old Girl,” he said for what felt both like the first and hundredth time. “Just thinkin’,” he added, patting the hand on his knee once before sliding his feet out of the stirrups and jumping down the other side of his horse. Empress’s lips were instantly nibbling at his elbow while peering at him with her dark perceptive eyes. He pet her once from forehead to nose, eyes fixed on her slim white blaze, before heading to the stream.

The crunching sound of the ground his feet walked upon felt different from that of the path on top of the hill, somehow. The vibration could almost have been soothing against the soles of his boots. There was comfort in its solidity, in the simple reality of its contact, in its refutation of the void.

He closed and opened his eyes in one of those long, painful blinks which felt like the prelude to the discovery of a new world but always revealed that expectation to be a sham, leaving only the same world, the same light, the same reality for the mind to ponder on.

He mechanically lowered himself into a crouching position, inhaled the humid air wafting from the wet soil. The discreet lapping of the stream soon filled his ears like the sound itself was made of liquid, evolving from the passive hum of Nature into an all-covering buzzing noise, stretching into a tendril that poked at the edge of his mind.

Then, like the morning mist of November, it vanished, dispelled by Hosea’s hand on his shoulder.

“Here. C’mon.”

A wet drag was rubbing his knuckles, drenched in clean water that was purging off the caked crimson on his skin which seemed to have soaked into his very flesh. Hosea’s slim fingers were patient, anchoring Dutch in the now more powerfully than a blow to the jaw. The ache inside him remained, feeding on his guilt, but eventually subsided like an echo imprisoned in a cave, overcome by the gentle and regular rhythm of his partner’s fingers. There was blood on them too, but it looked so translucent in comparison to that running down his hands, watered down as it was. Hosea’s index grazed against the pulse of his wrist, light as a feather, then retreated under his palm to reach his fingers, holding them like a solid beam holds a roof. Precision was etched in the hills of his knuckles and the dry bones connecting them to his wrists, but there was a tenderness in those hands too, sheltered somewhere in between the finesse of the pickpocket and the strength of the gunslinger. An old New York lady they had conned a long time ago had told Hosea after he’d brought her hand to his lips, ‘ _my, my good sir, you have the fingers of a pianist_ ’. Dutch didn’t know much about pianists, but he knew those hands. He knew them like the believer knew his church, and loved them with the blind abandon of faith.

He didn’t know when he started gripping them, but when he did, Hosea was clutching back. The golden shimmer of this country stream was nothing compared to the affection in his eyes.

“Hey,” he whispered. It was neither a plea nor a call for attention. Simply the gift of his voice, of his presence, and the warmth of his touch against the now cleaned skin of Dutch’s wrists and hands.

Hosea’s free hand slipped the piece of cloth out of their mutual grasp to slowly bring it to Dutch’s face. His fingers stopped in mid-air in a silent request for permission and only reached their destination after Dutch bowed his head, leaning into the safe obscurity of closed eyes and the cold but comforting touch of the wet fabric on his neck. The shiver than ran through him because of the water running on his sensitive skin made the present more solid around him; the firmness of the ground that supported his feet grew more tangible as Hosea’s hands slowly awakened his senses to their own perceptions, tuning them up to what he could feel, smell and hear _now_ rather than _earlier_.

He was unable to keep his eyes closed for too long; before he knew it, it became easier to let his gaze sweep over the polished stones at the bottom of the river, the clumps of grass guarding its banks like the collar of a thick winter coat, the creases of the tail of Hosea’s duster coat draping over his folded leg and ankle, the slight tremor of his hair under the breeze, and—because he’d always come back to lose himself in Hosea’s eyes—the steady and focused shine of his gaze.

Hosea’s palm rose higher to rub his cheek that had been scraped by blood and dirt.

“Alright,” Hosea spoke under his breath, washing the birth of hair at his temple after dipping the cloth into the stream another time.

After a short while, Dutch felt the humid pressure on his skin change into the back-and-forth stroke of a thumb. He leaned further into Hosea’s hand, and let his own thumb draw the same pattern on the conman’s wrist.

A spark of hopeful relief lit up in his partner’s eyes. His hand drifted back to Dutch’s neck, and the soothing pressure of his thumb on his temple was replaced by the soft caress of his lips.

“Alright,” Hosea said again, his fingers now carding through Dutch’s hair at the base of his skull, keeping his lips close to his skin. “Lemme clean myself up. We’ll be there soon. We’ll grab you a new shirt before the train tomorrow but take this for now.”

Dutch watched absently as Hosea shrug off his coat and moved to wrap it around Dutch’s shoulders. He had barely slid his arms in the sleeves that Empress’s loud, inquisitive neighing echoed on the plains. Dutch turned right on time to see her bob her head up and down, like a child begging for both attention and answers after being excluded from the parental confabulations for too long.

Hosea’s lips twitched in a subtle smile. “Your lady asking for you. Go. I’ll be right there.”

His hand brushed Dutch’s cheek one last time, and Dutch imagined his lips resting against this palm. He slowly rose to his feet instead, merely grazing the back of Hosea’s hand with his still wet fingers. Faithful to her spirited and incisive soul, Empress had taken the initiative to step closer, her head already lowered at the level of her shoulders to welcome his touch on her cheek and forehead. Dutch’s hands found their way there on pure instinct, moved by the evidence of her affection and the unshakable resilience contained in her gentleness. His fingers slipped through her forelock and remained there, imprisoned by her thick hair. She pressed her skull against the length of his forearm, offering it a rest as her chest and neck vibrated in a muffled snort. He felt hot air blow on the sharp angle of his elbow. Her eyes gleamed like polished ebony, understanding a million things words so often stumbled on. He thanked her with a scratch on her forehead and a par on her neck. She rubbed her muzzle against his cheek in response, her enthusiasm almost making him step back. A light push on the center of his back secured his balance, and although it wasn’t needed, his spine melted like molten rock where Hosea’s hand rested. It was a sharp, burning sensation, but the unwinding of his muscles brought a relief that his system was incapable of finding on its own.

Dutch glanced at Hosea, whose neck was rid from any trace of scarlet, save for a thin rosy gash in the shade of his neck. It looked clean, and no more blood was flowing from it, making Dutch question if there had been some in the first place.

He couldn’t take his eyes off it.

Hosea offered Empress’s right ear a good scratch before looking back at him and sliding his hand up in between Dutch’s shoulder blades. “We’re close. Ready to go!?”

Dutch swallowed as the warm trail left by that hand seeped into his flesh. He knew he had nodded, but couldn’t remember the sensation of the muscles of his neck flexing. His heartbeat quickened at the realization, fear crawling at the back of his skull. How much had he missed in between blinks?

_…and how much would he have to miss next?_

He bit his tongue. His canine buried itself so deep in his flesh its sting persisted well after his jaw slackened. The control inherent to self-inflicted pain brought him enough respite to focus his attention back on Empress. Hosea’s look never wavered as he watched him settle in the saddle and straighten his back. It only drifted away as the wall of silence between them failed to crumble under his stare. Dutch’s throat was itching to offer some words back but said words had ossified in his mind, had sunken so deep the prospect of digging for them seemed treacherous at best.

At least, his ears were not buzzing anymore and his eyes could find and reach the gold of Hosea’s irises. He kept that sight even behind closed eyelids as the click of a tongue stirred their horses to resume their progress towards Knoxville. They remained closed more often and longer than usual as the sun pursued its unstoppable descent. The sky had turned into an ocean of flames, its shades lost somewhere between fiery oranges and vibrant pinks. Staring at it for too long, no matter how absent-mindedly, was risking seeing it turn into a gigantic pool of blood.

In front of him, Hosea’s back became an anchor in a world of beautiful and menacing colors, fixed and constant like a rock piercing through that sea of ever-shifting hues. Time stretched and shrank again at intervals Dutch had no will nor capacity to assess. He only wished to lock his eyes on that back, hoping that, if he kept looking, all the promises and supplications and fears crashing against the walls of his skull until they turned into this loud, broken, wriggling mass would finally make sense; these thoughts would pierce through the fortress of his eyes and reach Hosea’s heart, would tether his partner to this world for as long as a man could live.

If he looked long enough, it’d be real.

If he looked long enough, he’d make Hosea stay.

Nature seemed indifferent to his desires and expectations, and kept passing by the hooves and shoulders of their horses like a moving photograph trapped in the square of its frame. The dangerous reds of the sky had long diluted into mild purple when small sparks and halos of yellow light pricked the corners of his vision.

Knoxville was but the silhouette of itself under the cover of dusk, its streets stretching far into the distance but hardly remarkable, its walls cutting the glow of porch and street lamps. People were passing by on their left and right like shadow puppets, the colors and contours of their clothes barely perceptible as the day expired behind the fringe of roofs. The marks of civilization were already around every corner, both witnesses and evidence of the impact of the railroad. Dutch gazed at a remote puff of smoke ascending towards the darkened clouds as if trying to pass itself off as one of them. Although he kept his mouth closed, his tongue heaved under the assault of unease and distaste. The sensation remained as they entered and walked through the city, sharpening his senses further as clarity nibbed at his consciousness inch by inch and refused to give back any ground this time.

Hosea didn’t have to stop to ask their way around; the low, belly-deep moan from the last train guided them better than any signpost. Dutch pictured themselves climbing onto the train and rushing through the veil of darkness, only to remember, as Diamond Ace took a slow turn to face the entrance of a rather small stable, that their plan involved spending the night at the cheap hotel Hosea knew to be near the station. Empress came to a stop behind the stallion, lowering her head in plain expectation of some rest.

The stable was guarded by a young gangly man staring at the ground with his arms resting on the stick of his pitchfork, a half-consumed cigarette shoved between his lips. From under a shabby patched flat cap, his eyes lazily drifted towards the two newcomers, as if he’d only woken from slumber a mere ten minutes ago.

His voice was but a drawl, and Dutch only caught the end of it as the lad chewed on his cigarette. “‘right, two horses… got room.”

The young man didn’t seem to need a response as he moved ahead, barely sparing either of them a glance as he propped his pitchfork against the nearest wall before he turned and eyed their steeds. Only when his hand reached for Diamond Ace’s reins did Hosea ask a question which Dutch didn’t catch. His eyes were set on the distant lamp illuminating the end of the gloomy street, shining like the mockery of a full moon, the circle of its glow so dull and feeble it could be mistaken for a crown of dust. Only cities could make a thing as simple and untouchable as light decay like a corpse.

Two gentle taps on his knees brought his focus back on living souls, as Hosea stood once again by his leg while rummaging through his satchel. Exhaling loudly through his nose, Dutch slipped his feet off his stirrups, then himself off the saddle, only to be met by the sight of a strap of jerky pinched between Hosea’s thumb and forefinger.

“You need to eat.”

His voice rang with the note of command, but the upwards pinch of his eyebrows revealed the worry barely contained behind his features. Dutch felt a layer of ice creep up higher inside his throat the longer he looked at that expression.

The mere idea of consuming food was as abhorrent to him as tasting poison. Yet Hosea waited, obviously bent on not moving an inch until he had taken the thin piece of dry beef.

“I’m not—“

“You _need_ to eat,” Hosea repeated, shutting off the protest with the readiness of a man who’d expected it. Before Dutch could try refusing again, a wrapped pack of jerky meat was shoved into his hand. “And drink. I’m gonna see the clerk inside for the room. You stay there and get some food in ya.”

To give weight to his request, Hosea drew one strap from the small paper bag, stuck it between his teeth, and tore off a fourth of it.

“Please,” he asked after some chewing. “At least try. For me.”

If there was ever a clear thought nestled in Dutch’s mind at that moment, it was that denying one of Hosea’s earnest requests was a task which even the greatest weaknesses of his heart could not push him to do. It had nothing with the conman’s deceitful charms or even the way his eyes turned even more piercing, sharpened by a secret light from within—even if that spark could catch his gaze and hold it fiercer than a hook; Hosea was his best friend, his partner, his _lover_ , and the best man Dutch had ever known. God knew how many times Dutch hadn’t listened to him, but denying him the most heartfelt and purest of his pleas was not only a foolish and revolting mistake but a betrayal of all the promises planted in the hearts of good men.

Dutch took the piece of meat. The salt bit into his tongue, sending a shiver down the nape of his neck as his taste buds awakened under the stimuli. Hosea’s eyebrows remained high on his forehead until Dutch chewed on it. His stomach contracted at the first swallow, but the food stayed there, the shadow of nausea more a memory than an actual threat. Dutch’s appetite was still low, but the coarse taste of dry meat being bearable was a victory in and of itself.

Hosea gave him a satisfied nod as Dutch extracted a second, longer strand of beef from the small package. Two of his fingers brushed down Dutch’s inner wrist like feathers as he took a step back towards the hotel’s entrance. Dutch’s fingers twitched to meet his skin for the briefest of seconds, incapable of denying this secret gesture the reciprocity it deserved.

After straightening his vest and shirt, Hosea headed for the door, leaving Dutch with nothing but jerky beef, his thoughts, and a poorly lit street. This had always been their routine when it came to hotel nights: only one of them meeting the clerk, while the second waited outside.

Dutch had in mind to go lean against the nearest wall but thought it best to first try to get some more food into him before his stomach decided to show itself less amenable. As he bit into his second piece of meat, he sensed the weight of eyes on him. The stableman—a boy, really, despite his tall frame—had not moved from his spot, his hand loosely wrapped around the reins of their horses. Dutch could only ignore him for so long, as the boy’s droopy eyes remained fixed on him like a disturbing picture from a catalogue.

“You looking at something, kid?” he drawled, his voice as dry as the meat he was biting in.

The stableman kept his unmoving stare on him, then blinked slowly, as if trapped in a time running at a different pace.

“I was wonderin’ if you wanted anything more with them horses, mister, or if I could go stable’m.”

Dutch narrowed his eyes at him. He was young, his face still round with the remnants of childhood, but his voice was almost as deep as Dutch’s, and the shadows over and under his eyes made it difficult to assess whether the boy was closer to sixteen or twenty.

He chewed on the leathery meat before replying, “No, thank you. Why don’t you just ask instead of staring at strangers?”

The boy didn’t answer that, only shrugged, probably too used to ruffians to have his feathers ruffled by the first cutting comeback. Either the kid was hiding some thick skin, or he was stupidly apathetic… or apathetically stupid. He never quite knew which was more common and dangerous in this world.

“Dunno. You’re a quiet fella, is all.”

Dutch could have laughed for a year at that one.

“I’m the least quiet fella you’ve ever met, boy.”

The kid shrugged again, then finally turned around to guide their horses into the warm shadows of the stable.

An unexpected wave of relief ran down Dutch’s shoulder and spine as he finished a third strand of jerky, seeping into his muscles like the heat of a campfire. He frowned at the sensation, surprised by its gentle intensity and suddenness. The answer came to him with the last audible clamp of the horses’ hooves.

No question or verbal cue had eluded his ears; the boy had only stared at him, in silence. And he had seen it. He hadn’t missed anything.

His hand tightened around the wrapped jerky as he consciously blinked, feeling the weight and the movement of his eyelids.

He hadn’t _missed_ anything.

His breathing felt _his_ , the air flowing through his tubes and pooling in his lungs felt _his_ , not someone else’s. His mind, both too tangible and too remote for the past hours, like a smudged painting seen through a keyhole, had become clear again without him even noticing. Mental doors that had shut themselves were pushed open as if hit by a too powerful gust of wind; if he walked through them, he knew many of his thoughts would greet him like a lifelong friend. Some others like a lifelong enemy.

Relief turned into queasiness, and queasiness turned into relief.

He shoved the rest of the dry meat into his travel satchel and drank some water from his canteen, tightening a steel grip on his newly found self-awareness, reining it like one rein in an undisciplined horse.

He heard the wooden door of the hotel creak open, followed by the sound of quick footsteps punctuated by the clinking of spurs he’d recognize amidst a hundred others.

He didn’t miss the way Hosea’s eyes searched for the food in his now empty hands before telling him with a low voice:

“Got us room 7, first floor. Go get some rest. I want to check on that stable kid, I ain’t too sure about him. I’ll go ask about the time for tomorrow’s train too.”

“I ain’t too sure about him either.”

Hosea blinked at him as if surprised by the evenness of Dutch’s tone. Hosea’s look felt heavy on him, and Dutch’s neck pulsed with a sudden aversion for his blatant inability to overcome that opaque veil that had fallen over him, leaving him sluggish, vulnerable.

_Weak._

Hosea’s shoulder bumped against his, the eyes of the man painting his face with gentle amusement. Not pity.

“Glad it ain’t the fruit of my imagination. I’ll make sure your girl is well taken care of, don’t worry.” His voice was but a caress as he added, “Get some rest. I’ll be right back.”

Hosea’s next step was already pulling him away from Dutch’s immediate space, taking with him that shroud of warmth that had draped itself around him in the subtle chill of twilight. His hand reached for Hosea’s wrist, pinching his sleeve between two fingers. Hosea turned around immediately, his eyebrows pinching upwards, translating the alertness that always seemed to course in his veins.

Dutch plunged his hand in his satchel and pressed the wrapped jerky into Hosea’s open hand.

“There’s some left. You need to eat too.”

He recognized the sparkle of grateful affection that colored Hosea’s eyes like they possessed their own inner star, the gold only ever gleaming in the precious shelter of their shared looks, so often cloaked in shadows but shining all the brightest when exchanged under the sun, unafraid and untouchable.

“I”m not really hungry,” he replied, the light never leaving his eyes as he accepted the small parcel. Dutch didn’t miss the way his pitch rose on the last word, the almost sing-song quality of his tone.

In that split second, Dutch was so thankful for Hosea’s ability to read the crevices carved in his unspoken words as easily as black lines on a white page he could have fallen to his knees. Instead, he simply echoed Hosea’s own words, the depth of his voice barely concealing a crack:

“At least try. For me.”

Dutch knew Hosea was making sure he could catch the soft curve of his smile in the dimness of the falling night.

It was not the first time in his life Dutch thought Hosea had a way of making his vulnerabilities and secret fears feel like surmountable obstacles rather than bottomless pits threatening to swallow him whole, but it was the first time when he understood it as this force, this _tether_ that could drag him across currents and rapids he’d never seen himself falling into and yet would drown him if he ever let himself stumble.

The air was colder in his throat as he watched Hosea walk away before turning to the entrance of the hotel, and he knew it wasn’t because of the decreasing temperature of the night.

He threw the barest of glances at the clerk, who looked bent on boring holes into his registry with his bored gaze anyway and simply granted him a brief ‘hmm’ by way of salutation. The building was not as ramshackle as the last hotel they’d set foot in, but it sure was enough to make brows crease in mistrust. The walls were at least coated by what used to be some decent wallpaper, displaying intricate floral patterns in the corners which the original owner had probably deemed chic. Time and an obvious lack of monetary resources had nevertheless defeated any attempt at making the place look above its own station: the wallpaper was peeling off in the top angles of the lobby and corridor—its yellowed dye was rendered even sicklier by the obscure lighting provided by lamps that had known better days—the wooden floor hadn’t seen a pot of polish in decades—if ever—and the carpet trying to conceal the poor state of the boards was eaten in various spots by what Dutch suspected to be unwanted small-sized visitors. The place didn’t reek, at least, which was rarer than what they were used to whenever they ventured into the less frequentable parts of towns and cities.

The room itself was decent: clean sheets had been tucked in the double bed which occupied half the surface, and a small basin of water and a towel had even been left on a small cupboard arranged like a would-be vanity in the far corner of the room.

These hotels were never truly silent: be it due to all sorts of nocturnal activities perpetrated by the lodgers or the scraping of rats vibrating through the ceilings, walls, and floors, complete silence and calm were a luxury if not a fantasy. However, as soon as Dutch heard the loud click of the door closing behind him with a push of the hand, silence fell onto the room like lead fell onto wet earth: heavy, displacing air in its descent, hitting with the full force of its weight and molding the ground around its shape. Dizziness tingled the back of Dutch’s eyes as the sudden, all-encompassing stillness appeared before him like an unshakable wall. This silence was piercing Dutch’s eardrums with all the force of its absurdity.

Grinding his teeth as he rebelled against the sluggish remnants of the weakness that had taken hold of his brain, he all but threw his satchel and Hosea’s coat onto the chair standing against the nearest wall with more strength than he intended. As he walked towards the bed, a shimmer in the left edge of his vision pulled his gaze to a mirror standing in the opposite corner of the room. What was apparent of his skin looked clean enough—he could feel the scratches and blows he had reaped during his fight more than he could see them—but his black vest and red shirt were dyed in the colors of dirt and blood wide and shapeless patches. His pants were in slightly better shape, at least as far as the blood was concerned. Exhaling loudly from his chest, he dusted them with heavy pats of his palms.

He experienced a gnawing ache in his shoulders as the tangled cords of his muscles unwinded, the sore prickle he felt travel all the way back to his spine grounding him in the midst of this upsetting tranquility. Pain had its own ways of providing comfort.

The fabric of his shirt suddenly felt coarse on his back and chest, and it soon joined his satchel on the chair, along with the ruined vest and his gunbelt. His lungs expanded in his chest as if they’d been waiting for him to shed these layers tainted with the filth of a place he wanted to bury into the darkest hollows of his memory. He let his fingers graze the crude yellow disc that was now beginning to color the skin over his hip bone, pressed it with the ball of his hand until he felt a dull throbbing under his skin. His hand glided over a similar mark tainting his other forearm, decorated by a myriad of thin scrapes that seemed to be spawning from the bruise like an ill-drawn red crown. The scratches he’d collected during his fight were all too shallow to need anything beyond time and clean air to heal. If anyone were to try and read the marks of his body, they’d swear nothing too bad had happened, only the unavoidable—and perhaps even good-natured—fist brawl through which young men molded their characters in the forge of the West. They’d look at those bruises and small halos of gauzy scars and say, ‘boy, Earth ain’t stopped turning.’

But Dutch had to live with the knowledge that it _had_. For too long minutes, _his_ world had come to a halt, and his mind had been stretched by its own inertia and skinned raw like the pelt of a dead carcass.

It was a knowledge whose weight he would never be able to discard.

He let it drag him to the bed. He remained seated on its edge until his eyes had roamed over every vein of the wood boards bridging the space between his feet. Once their organic patterns felt as familiar as the pale striations in the worn leather of his saddle, he slowly worked to toe off his boots and stretched his whole body onto the bed.

There was no clock in the room, yet he felt the loud passing of seconds with the beat of his pulse, the throbbing of his blood hitting the cartilage of his ears with a regular thump. The silence trapped between those beats made him only too aware of the void filling the room and the words he’d kept imprisoned inside his skull. The bedspread felt neither cold nor warm under his palms, and the curtains of his eyelids could only trade emptiness for darkness.

Solitude squeezed his heart and stomach with the grip of a bad fever. He remembered the taste and color of that particular sickness, had learned it after his first two months spent alone in the wild: the acidic bite of a stomach that was never full, and the all-encompassing blackness of nights swallowing the coppery tendrils of flames that warmed the body but not the soul. He’d missed the companionship he hadn’t even known could exist back then.

He knew of it now, and knew it deeper for having nearly lost it too.

He hadn’t seen the other hunter.

He hadn’t seen the horse.

_He hadn’t heard Hosea call for him._

His right hand twitched into a fist, pulling taut muscles and tendons to stifle the spasms of guilt that pulsed with each heartbeat. Hosea had _called_ _for him_ , and Dutch had been bathing his hands in blood.

A fire lit at the back of his eyes. He shut them tight once again, drowning all the silence enveloping him in the harsh sound of his breathing, keeping his mind from reeling back into that spectral and detached state.

He needed Hosea here.

He needed Hosea here and in every place of this godforsaken world like the tide needs a moon to conquer forbidden land and then retreat to the vast embrace of the ocean.

He needed to hold him, clutch at him with all the fierceness in his fingers then let them melt and bend against the warmth of his skin. He needed the rain of his voice to wash the scars of fear off his face, sink into his throat and ears and repaint the inside of his heart. He needed the hazel of his eyes, where the reflection of his brown always appeared warmer, brighter, where he could see the best of himself.

He needed Hosea _here_.

He needed Hosea _alive._

“Come on,” he gritted through his teeth, throwing his left arm over his eyes. The clock of his pulse kept going, mindful of time running but not of his attempts to appraise it, each heartbeat its own measurement.

Hosea was alive.

 _Ba-thump_.

Hosea wasn’t here.

 _Ba-thump_.

But he was alive.

 _Ba-thump_.

But he wasn’t there.

 _Ba-thump_.

But he would be.

 _Ba-thump_.

He would be.

 _Ba-thump_.

He would—

Wood creaked in the hallway. The footsteps weren’t slow, but they translated a prudence that never quite left their echo. On that evening, the sound of Hosea’s stride was the safest and sturdiest bridge between his reason and the rebellious instincts of his heart. The click of the doorknob was the loudest snap in Dutch’s ears, like the sealing of a judgment… or a promise.

His jaw became stone he kept burying scorching images and self-made accusations deep at the back of his mind to focus all of his perception on Hosea. He felt the air move around as his partner locked the door then made his way to the back of the room to take off vest, gunbelt, satchel, and boots like Dutch had done.

“The horses are okay. Made sure of it.”

The air shifted again, displaced by a sigh that Hosea must have been containing for too long.

Dutch resisted the urge to bite his lip as the rigidity that had taken hold of his jaw spread to his throat then the upper part of his chest as Hosea’s warmth and smell tickled his nose. Gun oil and pinewood. Openness and safety, all in one breath.

His saliva turned cold in his mouth, freezing the back of his tongue when the mattress sagged under Hosea’s weight as he sat down right next to him, his thigh grazing the side of Dutch’s resting arm. He was only able to swallow it down when the need to quash the threat of a whimper became too great as two fingers tucked aside a loose curl dangling on his forehead.

“Hey,” came the softest whisper.

_Neither a plea nor a call for attention._

_Simply the gift of his voice. A presence._

“Hey,” came his hoarse response.

He felt his pulse in his eyelids, trapped and maintained closed as they were under his arm.

Hosea was here. And so was he.

The fingers brushed away from his forehead, painting his temple in patient reverence.

Something was suspended in the air, trapped in the proximity of their bodies and inside his lungs, like the urge to scream.

He heard the creasing of fabric as pressure shifted on the bed, like a body leaning forward, away from him. Dutch’s eyes snapped open. Hosea’s uncoated back was bowed in the center of his vision. With his elbows resting on his knees and his suspenders slack around his hips, he was keeping his gaze fixed on the door, his mind probably reaching beyond the threshold.

“Time to get some rest. We’ll be outta this town soon enough. We’ll be fine.”

The scream trapped inside Dutch’s chest collapsed onto itself, then melted into _movement_. A quiet flame lit up in each of his muscles, sparked by the friction of raw instinct and conscious thought. He moved before second-guessing fears and the claws of guilt could hold him back.

Before Hosea could tilt his head or utter another word, Dutch sank his palms deep into the mattress, propelled himself up with a snap of his elbows, and wrapped his arms around Hosea’s middle, fisting the folds of his shirt as he nestled his face between his partner’s shoulder blades. He heard and felt a surprised ‘oomf’ leave Hosea’s mouth.

“D—“

“I just need… I need to hold you.”

His voice was trembling but supported by the solid heat of Hosea’s back and the regained clarity of his senses. Old words, offered in a paralyzing blizzard that had crystalized them in his memories bubbled up to the surface of his mind.

“Is this okay?” he asked, his voice made childishly weak by the shame of having asked only after the act.

Slim fingers circled his wrist in a bracelet of warmth, ready to clench close around it should he fall back into his own mind once again.

“You know it always is.”

Dutch’s wet chuckle vibrated against Hosea’s spine and found its echo in his chest.

“I like that sound,” Hosea spoke softly, still but pliant in the ring of Dutch’s arms. “Welcome back, _shefele_.”

The first time he’d heard the endearment as they were lying together in bed, Dutch had tasted the memory of honey in his mouth. He hadn’t known the meaning but had learned then that there was meaning enough in the manner people spoke regardless of the tongue. When Hosea had told him, he’d frowned at being compared to a lamb, then had grinned and assaulted Hosea’s neck with his lips when his partner had tried to aggravate him by repeating it once, twice, thrice, his mischief only fueling their mirth and affection instead of bridling it. Being an outlaw in more ways than one meant growing accustomed to a plethora of unexpected comparisons, and even finding grace and joy in some of them. In that instant, with his ears still ringing with the echo of that present, Dutch longed for that joy which he knew he should have felt just by pressing the body of that man he adored against his and felt both blessed and crushed by the weight of that grace.

Because Hosea had fallen off that ledge and, because of his negligence and selfishness, had nearly fallen _again_.

“Please forgive me.”

A muscle twitched in Hosea’s back. Dutch’s embrace prevented him from turning around. Hosea didn’t push it.

“What you goin’ on about now?” he asked, instead.

“You know what.”

The silence that followed was made heavier with each thump of Dutch’s heart. Then, as if he understood its needs better than Dutch did—and hell, he probably did—Hosea wrapped his hand around one of his, and hauled it over his own heart. The echo of Hosea’s pulse spread from his palm, lightening the load weighing down on his chest.

“It wasn’t your fault, and you damn well know it,” Hosea finally spoke, his voice no longer a whisper.

The aplomb of his tone, rendered almost dry by the silence pervading the room, was as troubling as it was welcome.

“I don’t think I know much about what happened today,” he let out, the admission digging a hole in his stomach. His hair stood on the nape of his neck, and the corners of his eyes stung with unexpected tears.

The pulp of a thumb caressed the back of his hand, still held firm against Hosea’s heart. “Here’s a thing I don’t hear often,” the conman nudged, the ghost of banter receding behind a genuine and undeniable acceptance of his failure. The solid back secured against his front shifted once more by a couple of inches. Dutch kept the circle of his arms clasped around Hosea, locked by the uncertainties he so feared and despised. “I told you then and I’ll tell you now: it’s _okay_.”

“I let you fall.”

“You did no such thing.” There was a tangible force pushing against his arms now. Dutch held, clawing his fingers into Hosea’s shirt. “Dutch,” the decisive voice tried again, “you did no such thing.”

“I might as well done it, I wasn’t careful enough.”

“Stop it, this ain’t you.”

_“I should have heard you!”_

The barbed wire that was pulling his muscles tight around Hosea snapped as if cut by a pair of tongs. He released his grip in a shivery breath, only for Hosea to clutch his forearm and rotate his body to finally look at him. Whatever words he had in store, however, remained lodged in his throat as Dutch reached back for Hosea’s arm.

The words he had kept concealed from the both of them were like poison, a venom he had no choice but to suck out lest it wreaked irreparable damage. They were seeping out now, unstoppable, just like the two tears that trailed down his cheeks.

“I should have heard you when you called me,” he said, words cracking at the edges, as if unable to support the loud volume of his voice as he clung to Hosea’s arm with the desperation of men secretly praying for absolution, “but all I wanted then was to kill that man. I wanted to shoot him in the heart, snap his neck, I wanted to cut his throat open. All I could think about was him _dead_ , drowning in his blood, with my hands washed in it _._ I wasn’t even _thinking of you_ no more!”

He bowed his head, overwhelmed by his confession. He could sense Hosea’s stare on the crown of his head as acutely as the scorch of the zenith in the toughest summers.

“I wasn’t even thinking of you no more,” he repeated in a defeated breath. “And I killed him.”

There was no need to say more than those four words, not when blood had written all there was to know on his clothes and skin. He had poured words onto Hosea time and time again and had basked both in the indulgence that would pool in his partner’s eyes—felt his heart soar and expand like the tail of a peacock when that indulgence sometimes morphed into something akin to adoration; he had also relished the way Hosea made those words superfluous with that outlandishly innate capacity to read Dutch’s heart and mind better than he could. It was a paradox he would have found maddening had he not found its resolution in the simple truth engraved in the light and grounding touch of lithe fingers.

It was that truth, wrapping itself around the back of his neck now, that brought him back to hazel eyes. Eyes too sincere for Dutch to evade no more.

“Before we met, I never killed in revenge for someone. No, _listen_ to me—“ Hosea’s hands rose to hold his face and prevent him from bowing his head in doubt and shame again, “—I never killed in revenge for someone… but I did kill in revenge for being tricked. For being stolen from a man working at a dock, when I had already robbed him of both his food and watch. I never took much pleasure in doin’ any killin’, but I rarely felt remorse after I done it. And I take it the only reason why I so rarely felt the need for revenge was because I never let myself be invested in anyone else’s well-being but mine. And my hands are all the bloodier for it.”

The light of the room was dim, yet the golden circle of Hosea’s irises looked so bright against the jet black of his pupils and the darkness concealed in his words. Looking away from him in that instance would have been cowardice.

“Whatever high opinion you have of me, dearest,” Hosea continued, wiping the tracks left by his tears with his thumbs, “I think you need to know that I would have killed him as well. I would have emptied my revolver in his chest, and then emptied his gun too. I would have hanged his corpse to a tree and let the crows feast on him if he’d taken you away from me, crazy idiot that you are.” Hosea’s thumb rested against his Adam’s apple, careful and feather-like against the hidden knot in his throat. “You’re looking for an absolution I cannot give you because I would have done the same.”

Dutch swallowed the knot, his hands sliding up to cling to Hosea’s elbows, holding them in place of that illusion of amnesty a part of him couldn’t help yearning for despite Hosea’s placation. He blinked once, his gaze dropping to the scarlet line barring the side of Hosea’s neck as sharply as it cut through his conscience.

“Would you have let me fall, though?”

“You _didn’t_ let me fall. You didn’t hear me, and so what? I ain’t got nothing to forgive. You thought I was gone.”

“You find that enough of an excuse?”

“I find that enough of a _reason._ All the more so in our line of work where affection is a rare thing to come across.” The warmth of his breath caressed Dutch’s nose and cheeks before sliding down to his lips as he brought their foreheads together, the shared heat of their skins sealing the intimate gesture as hazel and brown reached for each other. “And I used to think it was either an illusion invented for dime novels or a dumb mistake for fools to get shot for before I met you, remember?”

The knot that had descended in Dutch’s stomach slowly dissolved in the contagious warmth of Hosea’s body and words. His muscles gradually unwinded, the flesh of his palms slipping down Hosea’s forearms to envelop the slimness of his wrists in a hold that permitted both evasion and reciprocity. The tension that had etched itself in his expression like nicks inflicted by an ill-used and ill-kept chisel slowly faded, chased away by the irrepressible desire to repay Hosea’s openness and affection with a subtle yet open-hearted smile. It was one of those simple, fleeting things that contained rivers of possibilities and meanings, took root in life-changing conversations exchanged around a fire, and yet thrived in comfortable silence. It could also so easily be lost to the wind. God knew all he could have lost to the wind of revenge.

“And I thought I knew about the things I preached. That my goddamn mother preached…” He let the implications of that sentence slip back into his past, making a conscious effort to remain in the present in which he could feel the contact of Hosea’s forehead and arms. “I’m a fool,” he chuckled dryly, raising a tentative hand to stroke the pale hair that blossomed on the nape of Hosea’s neck. “I thought I had learned, back then.”

Hosea leaned back into his touch before granting him the same gesture, his eyes diving deeper into Dutch’s. It was the look he got when he was looking for the words that Dutch needed to hear, regardless of those he wanted. “Then learn _now_ , and do better next time. We all think we know best. I sure did think I knew all about how the damn world spun before I met a certain someone.”

Another discreet smile tugged at Dutch’s mouth, only for Hosea to press his own against its curve, bridging the gap between their lips the same way their exposed vulnerabilities joined their hearts. What had been a burden on Dutch’s shoulders was being reforged into an altar he could climb on to extract himself from any pit and ascend the tallest peaks. The kiss lasted but one second, resolute and firm. Dutch missed the heat of Hosea’s lips instantly.

“I’m sorry, you’re the one who nearly died,” he murmured, his lips already grazing Hosea’s again, unable to let them get too far. “I shouldn’t be… _weak_ like this.”

“Stop it,” Hosea whispered back. “You’re not weak. I’ve been weak, you ain’t. It ain’t what this is, stop it, _stop it_ …”

He kissed him again, and again.

“We’re learning together.”

Dutch kissed him back.

Tender and urgent.

He kissed him with this wild impulse that Hosea’s self-deprecation would always trigger in his mind, like a prairie fire sparked by a single lightning bolt. He kissed him with the growing desperation of men drowning in the sea of their gratitude. He kissed him like tonight was their first and last night together, the future stretching before them woven from both anticipation and bliss.

He kissed him with the tacit promise they’d made each other the night they met on his tongue.

_We’ll face the future together._

Dutch let gravity pull him back to the bed and Hosea followed him there, his hands sliding to his hips while Dutch cupped his neck to prolong their kiss. Their foreheads gently bumped against each other when their lips parted too far for a second too long, their eyelashes grazing each other’s skin in ghost brushstrokes before their mouths realigned themselves, drawn together by their own gravity. The hand on Dutch’s waist remained a gentle tether while a second hand stroked the underside of his jaw. The hills of Hosea’s knuckles, for all their careful softness, sent a shiver down Dutch’s neck that ran along his entire spine. His breathing hitched in his throat, paralyzing his lips for a little while, and leaving only his eyes free to explore Hosea’s face with the veneration trapped in his heart. He contemplated his skin, slightly red on the cheeks like a watered-down reflection of his solicited lips… the thin strands of hair that had escaped from the usually smooth blond crown, curving around the front of his ears and atop his forehead, as bright as silver… his eyes, _Jesus Christ, those goddamn hazel eyes..._

“You’re beyond description,” Dutch spoke in a hushed tone when his mouth was freed of the spell. His lips returned to Hosea, dived for his jawline, skidded higher, heavier, more desperate. “I wish you knew…,” he added before kissing his mouth again, his trembling breath distorting the words.

Hosea flicked him on the nose, dragging a surprised and half-offended _‘ow’_ out of him.

“Don’t overdo it, van der Linde,” Hosea smiled.

“It’s true!” Dutch chortled at him. “You questioning my honesty now? Or is it my judgment?”

“My good reprobate, as I am a fool, I have complete faith in the former, and as I am a man of experience, I absolutely dread the latter.”

“Sounds about right,” Dutch conceded, stealing a kiss on Hosea’s palm as it went to cup his cheek. He kept his lips pressed there and savored the new shiver that seized him at the contact of Hosea’s colder skin. The quiver reached his core and coiled itself up there, nestling between his tautening muscles like a purring cat, already spreading its warmth. The anchoring weight of Hosea’s hand on his flank remained still, an extension of his patience, solid and calm against Dutch’s almost feverish frame.

Each inch of Hosea’s skin was tempting him to seal with his lips the new promise that had blossomed in his mind and kept growing over the thorns that had petrified and scratched and slashed his brain with one constant, hammering thought: _I almost lost you._ He let those thorns bury themselves and latched onto what he knew would always keep him going forward, no matter the storms which dared bar his way:

“I’m not losing you. Hear me, Hosea? Now or ever.”

He slipped his knee between Hosea’s legs, hooked himself around his shin, tangling them close. Hosea was a mixture of cold and hot against him. Dutch could feel his pulse in his neck and ears and the caress of the air coming out of Hosea’s nose.

A quiet snort escaped Hosea’s throat before he nuzzled his nose against the arch of his eyebrows. “Crazy promises, again.”

“Well, I’m crazy alright.”

He skidded closer to Hosea, pressing their hips together. The warmth in his belly shuddered like a living thing. Hosea was slowly carding his hand through the hair, and Dutch’s need to touch suddenly turned into the need to _hold_. His fingers grasped Hosea’s shoulder, his palm molding its ball before gliding down his bicep, then the valley of his elbow, resting there as they locked lips once again. He poked Hosea with his tongue, begging for access which Hosea granted him in the next breath. Air seized in his throat, then left it in a rough, sharp sound he buried into Hosea’s mouth. His hand went further down, kneading the mount of Hosea’s hip, bringing him closer, always closer. His other hand snaked behind Hosea’s neck, allowing him to plunge his fingers into the blond waves with a yearning veering on abandon.

“Alright,” Hosea uttered, voice lost somewhere between a chortle and a gasp, and it was all he could say before Dutch licked himself back inside his mouth, a whine trapped in his lungs as he drank the sound of pleased surprise released by Hosea’s.

Hosea’s fingers kept up their reverent exploration of Dutch’s face as if trying to sculpt him anew, rid of all the grime of his dark thoughts and deeds. The serenity and trust that radiated from him were so remote from the cold and calculating energy Dutch had sometimes seen vibrate inside the man, like a wire ready to snap and rip through the air; it was a readiness he would rely on like the world was both his oyster and his purgatory. Now, Hosea’s body was nothing but patience and endearment as Dutch trembled against him with restlessness and what was an incontestably escalating and persistent desire.

He reached for Hosea’s neck. The feel of his pulse under the pulp of his thumb whipped his blood, sending his heart into a gallop, each beat resonating through him with the uncompromising need to soak himself in the glorious reality of their embrace: _they were alive_.

They were both _so alive._

Alive with relief and joy and want coursing through their veins, which pulsated only quicker and harder under the crushing weight of their luck.

The need to cling to this realization was overwhelming and, confronted by its intangibility, Dutch had no other option but to cling to Hosea all the tighter.

His hand traveled down Hosea’s arm within his next blink, hooked the underside of his knee, and dragged his thigh over his. A moan flew past his lips, still busy with kissing the breath out of Hosea as the buzzing heat that had wrapped itself around his core pooled down in his groin.

Another shiver vibrated through his skin, but it was not his. A heavy hand pressed against the relief of his collarbone, its thumb rubbing inside the hollow above his sternum. When Dutch focused his gaze, it remained locked on the black pits of Hosea’s dilated pupils. The whine imprisoned in his chest left its cage this time, and he forsook the need to breathe for Hosea’s lips and tongue, smashing his mouth against his with that unique form of desperation that found its source in delight.

As Hosea remained pliant but exquisitely more focused against him, Dutch started rolling his hips in slow and robust waves, moving his hand to cup Hosea’s ass and keep him secure against him. The conman’s lips parted from his as he breathed in, leaving Dutch free to explore his exposed neck, worshipping it with his tongue while his free hand roamed over the expanse of Hosea’s stomach. His fingers soon closed on the crumpled folds of his shirt and tugged it out of his pants in small, uneven yanking motions before working on its buttons. Hosea’s fingers drifted down to his chest, his nails raking through the dark curls that spread over his pectorals. When the base of Hosea’s hand grazed his nipple, the sound that came out of Dutch’s chest was lost between a moan and a purr. The hand that had drifted under Hosea’s shirt slid out of this warm shelter to wrap itself back around his shoulder, holding it in a vice grip and keeping them flush against each other while he maintained his grip on Hosea’s ass, his fingers twitching under the sudden rush of arousal that shut down all thoughts in favor of sensations as he rutted against Hosea with gut-driven vigor. Hosea’s thigh was a solid block against his hardening length, still trapped in his pants. He yielded to the temptation of friction more easily with each new roll of their hips, basking in the aching pleasure swelling in his groin like an imprisoned fire. The quickening pace of his breathing soon left him panting into Hosea’s neck; his panting yielded to quiet moans when the fire of Hosea’s sighs burned the shell of his ear; the sound of a _sharper_ intake—almost a gasp—poured into his ear shot directly to his cock.

“This what you need?” came Hosea’s voice, still steady but noticeably lower.

His hips were slowly absorbing Dutch’s movements, accepting to be led into their dance. The reciprocity of Hosea’s pelvis and core undulating with his would have kept him mute if not for the consuming need to make sure Hosea was fully there with him. Body, mind, and soul.

“Yes,” he licked into Hosea’s throat. “Yes, I need _you_. But only… only if you need it too,” he added, ceasing his assault on his neck to press his brow against the curve of Hosea’s clavicle, panting, waiting, begging.

Cold electricity sparked in the nape of his neck as Hosea’s long fingers combed through his hair in an upward motion before slowly tightening into a fist, not quite pulling on his locks but affirming his presence as well as his appetite; Hosea’s hunger hadn’t been dormant as much as patient, observant. There was a man who had stated and showed time and time again that he tolerated no fools—Dutch included in many of those times. There was a man whose impatience whipped worse than a winter storm, but whose inexplicable forbearance could support the weight of a mountain. There shone this contradiction that had pushed Dutch to follow the lead of his curiosity and optimism rather than his caution when that charming crook had approached him by the fire one night in Illinois.

Hosea’s legs readjusted themselves, fully trapping one of Dutch’s thighs between his before grinding his groin against it. There was no questioning the hard bulge rubbing against his muscle, as undeniable as the yearning in Hosea’s voice when he replied:

“Yeah, I need it too.”

Dutch’s teeth scraped his shoulder in response. His arms clasped tighter around Hosea’s frame, encouraged by the way the man’s arms and hands gripped him just as hard while they abandoned the trail of their respective thoughts for the sake of savoring the simplicity of remaining tangled together, letting their bodies rut against each other like two teenagers sharing a bed for the first time.

“But I need to know one thing first, dearest,” Hosea drawled, wrapping both his arms around Dutch’s head and pulling him close under his chin while Dutch’s hands rubbed along his sides, creasing his shirt up to his flanks and baring the skin. “I need to know you’re all here with me. That you really want—”

“I want it, Hosea,” he breathed harshly against his chest. “This _is_ me. I’m here, on this bed, in this room, in this shabby hotel which, quite frankly, is an affront to our standards, mind you,” —Hosea snorted and bumped his forehead against his skull— “Yeah… I’m here with you.”

He leaned back to peer at Hosea’s eyes, which were already waiting for him. His gaze then drifted to the neck he had worshipped with his lips and tongue and focused on the already closing slash scarring its side, on the thin crown of rosy skin circling the wound, a testimony both to the fate Hosea had narrowly escaped and the life still pulsing through him.

“I’m all here with you. Touching you…” he continued, determined to prove a point.

His eyes slid back up to meet Hosea’s gaze and remained fixed on it as he rubbed the untouched skin underneath the cut with his thumb, almost tentatively, in absurd contrast to the hunger that drove his hips into another jolt. He stifled a whimper by shoving his head back into the crook between Hosea’s neck and chest.

“Smellin’ you.”

He then let his tongue speak for him for a few delicious seconds, as it roamed over Hosea’s sternum in taunting, tantalizing motions.

“Tastin’ you.”

His hand ran down the length of Hosea’s stomach, brushing the hollow of his navel and the slim trail of pale hair before settling on the stiff curve of his concealed erection.

“ _Feeling you._ I’m all here,” he repeated, unable to repress a smile at Hosea’s small gasp.

“ _Yup_ , here you are alright,” Hosea chortled, nibbling at his ear in retaliation.

“Are you?”

“I thought it was plain how _present_ I currently am,” he jested, stealing the lead with a harsh shove of the hips. “Now how about you get me undressed before I do it myself?”

The commanding question and the sudden, forceful thrust coming from Hosea fed a low groan in Dutch’s chest.

A wild instinct awakened in his core, making both his heart and cock pulse under the assault of a hidden desire he had always muzzled in his mind but which he now realized had just been waiting inside his bones. This thirst felt both new and ancient, a yearning he had been too afraid to acknowledge, yet too weak to banish… Or perhaps it was Hosea who’d made him wise enough to consider there might be strength and beauty in it.

Without warning, Dutch grabbed the pans of Hosea’s shirt and rolled him on top of him, the moan that had built up inside his lungs finding release when their clothed cocks pressed and rubbed harder against each other. Without marking a pause, Dutch peeled the shirt off Hosea’s shoulders and down his arms, leaving only his wrists to be imprisoned by the rumpled fabric.

Hosea blinked wide at him, his mouth hanging open as he reflexively straddled his waist. When their eyes met, whatever question had been on his lips remained suspended in time. The surprise Dutch could read in Hosea’s expression ebbed away like the retreating tide, replaced by the openness and gratitude that were the crucible of their silent and mutual understanding. Hosea’s eyes shone like two suns under knitted brows, their candor and gentleness betraying the emotion that had flooded him when Dutch’s trustful gaze had met his, heavy with the weight of a plea he hadn’t yet voiced.

“What do you need?” Hosea asked slowly, the obviousness of the answer pervading the air like a sweet fragrance.

“You,” Dutch answered anyway.

In a swift movement, Hosea discarded his shirt, letting it land onto the bedroom floor as his hands reached for Dutch’s shoulder and jaw, his eyes never leaving his. His mouth lingered over Dutch’s, tickling it with his breath as he asked:

“What do you _want?_ ”

Dutch’s hands snaked on the reliefs of his ribs and behind his shoulder, flattening their palms against the skin as much as he could as if they could fuse with it. The heat was growing in his abdomen, twitching with the need to reach for Hosea’s lips. However, before he could stretch his neck, he was already granted the solace and comfort of their touch.

“What do you want?” Hosea asked again.

His tongue offered more of that eager encouragement, a titillating nudge that promised safety and pleasure in equal measure. _Because this was Hosea. Because this was them._

“I want to _feel_ you,” Dutch finally exhaled, feeling a secret lock open in his mind.

He wanted to give all that he possessed to the man bent over him, a man who’d made him feel more immortal than he'd felt in the most gullible years of his adolescence. A man he had nearly lost today— _had_ lost for the most agonizing minutes of his life—and yet whose heat was now filling all the depths of his lungs. He wanted to give up all pretense of control—because what had he even controlled today? He wanted to yield, to bend and perhaps break under Hosea’s strength and be rebuilt in the sea of his tenderness.

He _wanted_ and _needed_ to relearn his body, with Hosea as his compass.

“I want to feel _all of you._ ”

Hosea kissed him again. Feverishly this time, a mirror of Dutch’s craving, sending him back the full force of his hunger. But amidst the slick movements of their tongues, there was appreciation and gratefulness. Hosea’s reverence traveled down his chin, poked at his Adam’s apple, coiled around a nipple, and tasted the shivers that ran through Dutch’s whole frame like fruit to be plucked.

“All of you, I need it, Hosea, I need to know—you’re here,” he gasped, overwhelmed by both the tumultuous torrent of his thoughts and the trail of fire left by Hosea’s tongue as it followed the river of dark hair down to his navel.

It then flew away from his skin like a feather blown by the wind, replaced by the burning cold of Hosea’s fingers gently grabbing his hipbones. The gold of his eyes swept back to Dutch. “I _am_ here, dearest.”

The hands anchored on his hipbones and the weight of Hosea’s upper body resting on the blazing spiral of pleasure slicing through his groin were stealing the few words he had left in the fog of his conscious mind.

“I need to _feel it._ I need to feel that you’re there… Please, Hosea, I—”

And Hosea didn’t blink once as one of his hands expertly slipped the leather of his belt out of its buckle, the clinking of the metal sending another tremor right to Dutch’s pulsating cock.

There was no question left in the hazel of his partner’s eyes, only the twin reflections of their lust and reverence, merged in seas of brown and gold, shimmering all the brighter from being shared, and the demand of being asked in plain words what both men’s heart had already spoken and understood.

All Dutch had to do was to take a breath and speak.

“Hosea, I want you inside me.”

The hands that had gripped the edge of his pants spread themselves flat on his abdomen. They remained there for a second, then slid up across his ribs, escorting Hosea’s lips as they pressed soft, soothing kisses on his skin, following the path previously trodden by his tongue until they reached Dutch’s face. Their pulp molded against his chin, his cheeks, his eyelids, then returned home against Dutch’s lips, swallowing the weak whimper that had slid past them. One of Hosea’s hands remained flat and firm on his chest while its twin cupped Dutch’s face, finding that spot under his ear where Hosea’s fingers could perfectly espouse the square of his jaw.

His eyes were like warm velvet on his face but his voice grave when he asked, “You sure this is what you want?”

“Yes.”

Hosea frowned at him. “I thought you refused to ever put yourself in that position.”

“I know what I said, but I just _told_ you I wanted this,” Dutch drawled, reaching for Hosea’s hips, his fingers already pushing against the rim of his jeans.

“And I told you,” Hosea replied, his tone still sober but gentle, “many many times that I would be absolutely fine if we kept things as they was. You don’t have to force yourself to—”

“I’m not _forcing_ myself to do anything, Hosea,” Dutch interrupted, his vexation now knitting his eyebrows as much as his need. Vexation then melted only to leave what it had tried to coat: self-consciousness and shame, rooted in the conflict raging between his fear-driven instincts and the regret of having ever equated what this wonder of a man had offered him on so many nights with ‘weakness’. Hosea’s hesitation only made the pang in his chest more inflamed. “If you don’t want, it’s fine, we can—”

The hand supporting the curve of his jaw drifted to softly pinch the cleft of his chin between its thumb and forefinger. “B’shert, there are no words that could express how much I want to sink into you and give you all that you need and deserve right this minute.”

Not one to deliver claims without proof when he wasn’t practicing his conning talents on poor oblivious souls, Hosea shifted over him to once more rut against Dutch, making them both aware that the sweet torture of their mutual arousal had not decreased one bit despite the steadying of their hips.

“I want to give you that pleasure which you gave me so many times already, and I want to feel you _around me_ as I do so,” Hosea insisted, his eyes pouring all of his sincerity and lust onto Dutch. If he hadn’t been certain of his want before, the way the tender and sinful promises woven into Hosea’s words made his cock twitch in the confines of his pants sure was confirmation enough. Did Hosea even realize what he was doing to him at that moment?

“Then, why are you frettin’ like I didn’t just ask you to?” Dutch whined under the painful pressure assaulting his nerves.

A pair of elbows settled on each side of him, allowing deft fingers to sink into his curls and massage his scalp.

“I’m ‘frettin’’, as you say, because we’ve known each other for a good while now. I know that what happened today… hurt you, in a way neither of us truly expected. I already got enough narrow escapes from death in my life to care much about coming so close again.”

He stopped, suppressing the guilt that clawed its way out of Dutch’s chest in the form of a pained groan with a kiss and by increasing the pressure of his fingers on his skull.

“But I never had anyone around that would care about me dyin’ before.”

The lines of his face had deepened in an expression that seemed to harbor regret as much as pain. Dutch’s hands flew to Hosea’s neck and held it as he stretched his own to kiss the birth of Hosea’s jaw, his expression tightening with the impossible wish to erase this dark past wreathed in cold solitude.

“More importantly, dearest, I never had anyone I cared about,” Hosea carried on. “You changed that, you _changed_ everything, and I don’t know how much we can claim to deserve from this world, it probably ain’t much, but I _refuse_ to do this if it’s for the wrong reasons. If you want me to take you for the first time tonight only because you think you owe me an apology or that you deserve some _punishment_ for what happened today? Then I’m getting the hell out of here. This isn’t what this should be about.”

Hosea didn’t grant him a kiss this time, only let his words float in the air like an unbreakable oath, waiting for Dutch to take in all its implications. Dutch stared back at him for long seconds, their silence only perturbed by the heavy rhythm of their breathing. His hands then ran down Hosea’s neck like water sliding down a rock, his fingers stroking the thin and nearly invisible layer of blond hair on his chest with the adoration he felt in his heart. His eyes reached for an old pale scar that drew a line under Hosea’s right clavicle, following the same curved trajectory, like the trail of a meteor across Hosea’s skin. The older sister to that new, smaller scar on the side of his neck. A memento of a time Dutch’s hadn’t known, and yet could have stolen so much from him. How many times had he looked at it or stroked it with the urgent weight of his fingers or his tongue, unknowing of the abhorrent tale it told? He licked his lips, brushing the scar with his thumb.

“It’s true that I… never allowed myself to think of it as a possibility. When I was younger I told myself that I could love men, but this? This I’d never do. Men _fuck_ , and that’s the end of it. I never questioned that, never asked myself why it was that way. I spend so much time questioning this country and the people who live in it, questioning the hymns my mother would want me to recite over any book I chose, but this…” He let out a dry chuckle, stroking the length of Hosea’s scar one more time before driving his eyes into his. “Then _you_ come around, following me and calling me a fool, and by God, it’s maddening how right you can be sometimes. I can’t tell you I fully get it yet, but ever since the moment I realized I wanted you, I’ve felt all sorts of desires and questions I never considered before, and I didn’t have all the answers for them. I don’t reckon I liked the feeling too well at first.”

It was Hosea’s turn to huff a quiet laugh, eyes twinkling with amused tenderness. Dutch smiled back at him, combing Hosea’s hair with his fingers. “But I got used to it alright, I s’ppose. I got used to these questions, and now I want to explore the answers with you. Because you’re the safest place on Earth, Hosea. You’re what they call ‘ _home’_.”

The spark in Hosea’s hazels flared into and spread into glistening gold, his entire expression shifting to something raw and vulnerable.

“I can’t lie to you and pretend that this has nothing to do with what happened today. But this ain’t what you said, this is… You almost died, Hosea, and please, by everything you hold true, believe me when I tell you I never got scared like this in my life,” Dutch continued, his voice cracking at the simple evocation of the memory. “But you’re _here now_ , and I truly _am_ a fool for thinking I knew how lucky I was to be with you before today. I had no idea.”

The distance separating their lips grew intolerable once more. He bridged the gap, tasting all of Hosea’s scents on his lips— _shaving cream, tobacco smoke, pinewood_ —and offering veneration with the tip of his tongue in exchange. Hosea would have looked paralyzed over him were it not for the eager and trembling response of his lips. When they broke the kiss to fill their lungs, Dutch brushed his skin with a sigh, nudging Hosea’s cheek with his nose.

“This ain’t about punishment, schatje,” he breathed. “I’m too selfish for that. I just want to leave the fear behind. I want to feel every inch of you, I want to feel the joy of you, of both of us being _alive_. I just want to _love_ you. Ain’t nothing more but that.”

He had no term left in his vocabulary to describe that new light in Hosea’s eyes. As far as he knew, if gold and silver could be merged into one single color, then here was where it was born. Love existed in many shapes in this world, touched all life at some point, no matter how briefly, or at least so was his conviction… But in Hosea’s eyes, Dutch believed to have found its cradle.

The kiss they shared this time was slow, a dance of emotions that could no longer be sculpted into words. Hosea’s eyelashes painted his cheekbone as he nuzzled at the side of Dutch’s face and clenched his eyes shut against him, inhaling his scent and breathing out into his skin in voiceless worship.

“‘ _Nothing more but that_ ’, he says,” he sighed, his voice trembling too much to let him chuckle. Dutch did it on his behalf, then kissed him again, his hands sliding back into the familiar, tantalizing track of Hosea’s flanks until they could grab his ass.

“I believe we’ve reached the end of negotiations?” Dutch said, eyes and smile still fond but also full of teasing.

“You plead your case well, Mister van der Linde,” Hosea replied with a similar twinkle in his eyes.

“And we’re on the same page?”

“Oh, _absolutely._ ”

“Then will you please get that nice cock of yours inside of me now?”

Hosea’s laugh echoed loudly through the room, and Dutch’s subsequent pout only made it last longer. He nevertheless opted for clemency, his hand impishly slithering south where Dutch’s belt remained unbuckled.

“You’re gonna learn to have a bit of patience if you want what you asked for,” Hosea responded, his hand now stroking the persistent swell of Dutch’s cock between the layers of his pants and his drawers.

“Does it look like I got much patience left?” Dutch hissed, bucking against him as heat flared once again in his groin.

“Hmm, you do seem eager,” Hosea grinned, not stopping his caress, pressing his palm even a little harder against the stiff curve of his erection. “However, you and your beautiful cock are gonna have to find some more, because I’m taking my time with you.”

The groan that left Dutch’s chest was raw with frustration and thirst as Hosea’s fingers slowly abandoned cock to grip the edges of his pants and drawers. Dutch’s tight expression unwinded instantly. He arched his back and lifted his ass off the bed, enabling Hosea to slid the undesirable garments down the lengths of his legs.

“I ain’t sure I can take you ‘taking your time’ tonight,” he muttered, exhaling in relief as his aching cock finally sprang free.

“Don’t wanna hurtch’a,” Hosea countered. He yanked both trousers and drawers off Dutch’s ankles with two purposeful tugs of his arm and discarded them behind him without sparing them a look. “Don't worry, I know you have it in you,” he all but purred in Dutch’s ear, obviously pleased with the tremor his murmur sent through Dutch’s neck and spine. “Good boy.”

The taunting praise went straight to Dutch’s cock.

“You’re still wearing your pants,” he complained, his breathing loud and heavy with anticipation.

"Inexcusable,” Hosea smiled.

His gaze remained locked with Dutch’s, not broken even by a single blink, as he sat back on his heels and reached for the buckle of his belt. His fingers moved with practiced precision and deliberate languidness. Dutch pushed himself up on his elbows to allow his eyes to glide over Hosea’s body, drink in the impish curve of his lips, the slender but deceivingly strong outline of his shoulders and chest, the finely sculpted stomach, all the way down to the tantalizing golden curls peeking out of the now slack opening of his jeans.

Hosea’s pants had barely drifted down to the top of his thighs and began to reveal the root of his cock that Dutch’s hand was reaching for his own, stroking its length in vigorous jerks. One of Hosea’s eyebrows arched on his forehead, but Dutch didn’t miss the way the black of his pupils widened, reducing the golden crown of his eyes to two circlets of amber. His vision was soon drawn, however, to the even more encouraging sight of Hosea’s fully awakened cock.

Hosea clicked his tongue in mock-disapproval, his trousers kicked off and sent to join Dutch’s on the bedroom’s floor. “Impatient as always. What am I gonna do with you?”

“Fuck me, hopefully.”

Hosea’s smile grew sharper, hungrier.

“With that attitude?” he ribbed, stretching himself back on top of Dutch until their foreheads met, Dutch standing his ground and refusing to flatten his back on the mattress.

“You like my attitude,” he retorted, still pleasuring himself.

His hand stilled when slim fingers locked around his wrist and Hosea’s mouth stole a soft whine from his.

“Perhaps I do, fool that I am,” Hosea breathed into him.

He pressed his lips against Dutch’s once again, and this time, Dutch let himself be pushed back onto the bed, reaching back for Hosea’s neck while his other hand gripped back Hosea’s wrist.

Hosea’s lips then found the hollow of his neck, delicately brushing the skin with a simple peck at first before exploring the base of his throat with his tongue, swallowing the vibration provoked by Dutch’s moan. _God_ , this man knew his weak spots better than he knew them himself.

Hosea gently bent his arm to bring back Dutch’s hand at the level of his shoulder. Dutch let him, too focused on the pleasure pulsing in his abandoned cock as Hosea’s tongue maintained its assault on his neck, his teeth grazing the skin in between kisses. Cold air suddenly hit his throat, and Dutch only had the time to blink before Hosea’s lips and tongue began to trail down his chest, hovering only an inch above a nipple. He bit his tongue when Hosea’s finally swirled over it before his lips sucked on it. One of his hands reached to tease his second nipple with circular rubs while the other maintained Dutch’s hip bone against the mattress; the pressure was nowhere near harsh but was firm enough to keep Dutch still and make his brain reel, intoxicated with that subtle display of Hosea’s strength and power. As for the more patent demonstrations… Well, he sure was keen on discovering in what exact manner the novelty of this night would shut down his mind.

The track of fire left by Hosea’s tongue then reached the center of his abdomen, exploring the furrows between his abs as his hand kneaded the softer and rounder meat of Dutch’s hips. A low, appreciative ‘hmm’ passed from Hosea’s lips into Dutch’s skin as his fingers worshipped the tender flesh.

“You’re gorgeous. You know that, right?” Hosea whispered into the hollow of his navel, his breath tickling the skin, pulling on that cord of painful pleasure that tied his abdomen to his crotch.

The hot air he exhaled drifted further south, tickling his fluff. It was only due to the apologetic kiss Hosea pressed against his inner thigh, along with the long-awaited stroking of his cock, that Dutch was able to bite back another fragment of his ‘attitude’. Probably for the best, as he wasn’t certain any form of snark on his part wouldn’t have resulted in Hosea punishing him with more physical distance and leaving him to suffer in the boiling pool of his arousal.

Instead, he simply sighed Hosea’s name, the sound lost somewhere between a plea and a demand.

“ _Shhh._ Let me take care of you. I’ll make you feel good.” Hosea said, his hand starting to work up and down his cock at a measured pace.

Dutch’s fingers, still tangled at the base of Hosea’s hair, spasmed as bolts of white-hot pleasure shot through him, only heightened by the craving that was pulsing in his veins like fuel to the fire nested in his core.

Hosea’s thumb rolled over his slit, spreading that one drop of precum that had beaded on his tip. Dutch fisted the sheets so hard his nails could have ripped up the fabric for all he knew. He certainly couldn’t give two shits about it.

Because Hosea’s hand was now circling the base of his cock while his lips—slightly parted, both the most blessed and sinful sight Dutch had ever laid eyes on—hovered only two inches above its head. Hosea had visibly been waiting for Dutch to make eye contact, for as soon as he did, he lowered his head and swept his tongue across his full length, from base to tip. Dutch had only been granted half a second to take in the wolfish and mischievous glint that had shone in Hosea’s eyes, but it took even less than that for the image to completely melt away in the expanding sea of bliss Hosea was employing himself to drown him in. After granting him another long caress of his tongue, Hosea pressed a feather-light kiss on the red swollen head, his fingers gently rubbing the lower part of his cock. His eyes waited for Dutch’s gaze to drift back on him, but not out of impishness this time. Dutch strained his neck and blinked several times in search of focus. When he found it, patient hazel was expecting him, offering him safety. A quivering smile tugged at Dutch’s lips as he understood the silent question, then granted his response with one affirmative nod.

The next second, Hosea’s mouth was sinking down on his cock.

Dutch’s chest heaved at a rapid and uneven pace, shaken by the force of his own yelp as his partner’s mouth slowly pulled back up until his lips molded the tip of his cock, his tongue sliding into his slit as his thumb had done a few seconds ago, then moved down again, hollowing his cheeks before sucking his way up to the head once again.

Dutch had no idea where he’d found the strength or presence of mind to relinquish his hold on Hosea’s hair and leave his head free of any pressure, his hand now clutching the arm Hosea was wisely pressing across his abdomen; perhaps it was more of an accident, a happy jolt of his nerves taking control of his muscles before he could even become aware of it, unable as he was to extract himself from the pleasant goo his mind had turned into; perhaps it was because his body itself had learned Hosea’s ways like he would learn verses, and had rewritten its reflexes to the most unconscious level, as if Hosea’s body and his boundaries had become an extension of his own.

The hot velvet of Hosea’s mouth engulfed the length of his cock once again, going even further down this time, his tongue swirling as far as it could around his girth before flattening itself against the underside, covering every inch and vein as he fondled his balls and sucked Dutch’s senses out of him.

“H—Hosea… _Fuck_ …,” he whimpered, absently recognizing the omen spelled by the deep breath Hosea took through his nose.

Hosea then sank all the way down to his base until the tip of his nose nestled in his fluff, and Dutch could have sworn his vision had gone white. By the time the moan building inside his chest erupted past his lips, it had blossomed into a _scream_.

Hosea hadn’t waited too long once they’d become intimate to use on him the wide range of skills provided by his experience. The first night Hosea had sucked his cock had almost made a religious man out of him, an irony which hadn’t been lost on either of them.

Hosea’s tongue glided back to his head one last time before his mouth forsook his cock with an obscene _‘pop’_ , leaving behind a coat of saliva which only made the sudden absence of his partner’s heat a perfect mixture of unbearable and electrifying. Dutch’s spine was still as tense as a strung arrow when Hosea chuckled above him. Both his fists and eyes remained clenched tight as he focused every remaining parcel of his very much impaired self-control on the task of not finishing _this instant_ when Hosea’s hadn’t even slipped a finger inside him.

He let out a trembling whine when Hosea’s hands landed gently on his neck and bicep, his whole body yielding to a single abrupt tremor as it laid trapped between the warmth of his palms and the air of the room turning cold around his wet and twitching cock.

“God, _fuck…_ ” Dutch repeated, still scrambling to gather the splintered shards of his thoughts. “Th—that…”

Hosea’s next chuckle dissolved into a pleased sigh as he nuzzled the hollow of his neck, the hand resting on Dutch’s arm caressing his skin in slow, soothing motions.

“Got your tongue?” he teased, his breathing more audible, slightly less in control.

“Got—got me nearly finishing here and now, more like,” Dutch heaved, still not quite able to open his eyes. “That wonderful, incredible… _divine_ mouth of yours,” he eventually chortled, euphoria seeping into his veins like sweet nectar.

“And you didn’t even complain about me not letting you come, this time,” Hosea all but purred before granting him with a kiss on his lips. “I’m impressed. And proud, I gotta say.”

“Only because I want to come while you’re inside me,” Dutch panted against his cheek, his eyelids slowly drifting open, enough of his focus regained now to catch the way Hosea’s nostrils flared and his eyes darkened.

His honesty earned him the reward of a full-mouthed kiss, Hosea’s tongue dancing with his in an open statement of their shared lust. Dutch extended his arm towards Hosea’s crotch, determined to feel the throbbing heat of his cock in his palm. As soon as the tips of his fingers reached the coarse hair coating his groin, however, Hosea’s entire frame slithered away from his grasp, as swift as an alert fox.

Dutch blinked in confusion, his fingers closing on nothing but thin air, the cover of Hosea’s body now replaced with the stale air and sorry sight of their dimly lit room.

“Hosea, you’re killing me, dammit,” he cursed as he pushed himself onto his elbows, making no effort to erase the whine in his voice. His eyes were glued to the naked frame of his partner, now all but sauntering across the room like temptation made man, leaving him to deal with the pang of his frustration despite the comforting and promising vision of his cock still arcing up in front of his lower abdomen.

“Don’t be a child now,” Hosea chastised, rummaging through his satchel. “What d’ya want me to do, fuck you dry?”

“If that’s what it takes,” Dutch muttered, falling back onto the bed.

“It isn’t, and you damn well know it,” Hosea retorted with more fondness than exasperation.

“I just need you.”

“I know, dearest.”

A small smile stretched Dutch’s lips, and he briefly contemplated the idea of touching himself again while waiting for Hosea to crawl his way back to him. He was halfway through this particular train of thought when a victorious exclamation resonated across the room.

There Hosea stood, glowing like a statue from Ancient Greece in the fortunately lit corner of the room, proudly exhibiting a tin of petroleum jelly in his hand as if it were the sword of Columbia.

“Thank God for preparedness,” he grinned.

“Fantastic. Now get your ass back here.”

“That attitude again. Could be enough to convince a man to give up on you and let you take care of yourself, you know?” Hosea chided. He nevertheless made his way back to the bed in measured steps, stopping right next to it and resting a hand on his hips. His cock was standing at attention only a few inches away from Dutch’s hand, a provocative challenge that Dutch would more than gladly accept if the desire to see Hosea climb back on top of him without any other prompt than his voice wasn’t stronger. So Dutch stilled his hand, boring his gaze into Hosea’s instead, and said:

“What if I ask you nicely?”

His voice had come out soft, the playfulness that had drawn a smile on his face receding to a simple note meant to punctuate the all-encompassing sincerity of his tone.

Hosea began to raise an eyebrow, but his mischief faded away as well, dissolved into a sea of affection, softening his expression almost instantly as the echo of the familiar question filled the silence like an old melody.

His fingers found their way against the curve of his wrist, stroking his pulse like a gentle wave as leaned forward.

“You don’t have to.”

And just like that, Hosea’s skin and lips were back on him. Now framed by Dutch’s powerful but pliant thighs, Hosea lifted his partner’s right leg a few inches off the mattress by the knee, peppering its skin with small pecks.

Dutch’s contented sigh turned into something more desperate as Hosea’s kisses followed an inexorable path down his inner thigh and towards his cock, leaving him to stare at Hosea with pleading eyes until the man fully nestled himself between his thighs, repaying his all but relative patience with a slower, greedier kiss on the swollen tip of his cock.

“Need you too,” he murmured, his fingers gently circling the base of his cock once again. His tongue soon joined their effort, feeding the flames licking his insides as his free hand fought off the lid of the jelly tin. His eyes then snapped back to Dutch’s face, hard as steel. “If anything feels wrong, I want you to say it, understood? Don’t even think about lying to me.”

Dutch stared back at him, absorbing all of Hosea’s resoluteness only to offer him his own:

“Not to you. Never to you.”

The steel in Hosea’s eyes melted, tenderness washing over his entire frame. He pressed another series of reverent kisses along the river of black hair running down his thigh. Dutch stretched his neck back into the pillow, sliding a finger between his skin and Hosea’s lips which his partner welcomed with a flick of his tongue.

He startled when he heard the metallic clatter of a lid finally falling to the floor.

“Try to relax, shefele. Breathe,” Hosea instructed in a gentle tone before giving his cock another couple of strokes.

Dutch almost retorted that relaxing represented a rather demanding enterprise when all of his blood seemed to have flown down his cock, pulling each of his nerves as taut as his erection in the process.

But a _cold_ and wet finger then slid against his entrance, slicking his skin in light, circular motions, and Dutch’s chest froze.

“ _Breathe_ ,” Hosea reminded him.

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” Dutch huffed, following his advice. “T‘s cold is all.”

Hosea huffed humorously against his groin, maintaining the probing of his index at a slow and steady rhythm. “It is. Soon it won’t be.”

He gradually increased the pressure at regular intervals, careful not to breach in yet, waiting for Dutch to grow accustomed to the unfamiliar touch. When Hosea caressed his cock up and down again, Dutch let out a vocal moan, surprise knitting his brows as a cordon of tickling pleasure was spun between his cock, his core, and the sensitive skin receiving Hosea’s ministrations.

“Gonna slide a finger in now. Ready?”

Dutch breathed through his nose and smiled at him, finding in that one exhalation the peacefulness woven into their mutual trust, a bond that had been forged in laughter, silence, and bullets. It was this trust that gave both meaning and evidence to that great principle and dream that so many men wanted to chase: to receive was to give, and to give was to receive.

With no hesitation, he rubbed his thumb against Hosea’s temple and breathed out a single ‘yes’.

Hosea’s finger circled his entrance one last time before slowly, carefully pushing in. Dutch’s breath seized in his chest, leaving him to gasp and shiver at the intrusion, every muscle immediately tensing up like a bowstring.

“Shh, relax, it’s okay. Relax. We’re taking this slow,” Hosea murmured against his skin, stopping his progression. His free hand gently explored the broad expanse of Dutch’s stomach and gest, leaving a trail for his lips to follow as he glided his way back up, careful not to push his finger deeper right away. “God, look at you. Beautiful, so beautiful like this.”

Dutch gasped a second time, his voice vibrating through his sigh.

“I got you,” Hosea continued before kissing his jaw and easing his index out and pushing its tip back in just as slowly as before, just a little deeper. “Doing alright?”

“Y-yes. Go on,” Dutch panted only to shiver once again when Hosea slowly eased the rest of his finger in.

“There you go. You’re doing so good,” Hosea praised against the corner of his mouth. “I wish you could see yourself. Feel yourself.”

Still keeping his gestures languid and patient, Hosea pulled half his finger out before sliding it back in, setting a tranquil pace tuned to the continuous worship of his voice, pouring onto Dutch’s skin rivers of praise and encouragement, easing him open just as much as the jelly coating Hosea’s index. Before Dutch realized it, Hosea was pulling out the whole length of his finger and pressing it back inside him with more vigor, maintaining that same soft and lazy rhythm.

Dutch’s body slowly melted in Hosea’s embrace, the tension that had taken hold of his muscles seeping out like water leaking from a roof, leaving only the strange but not-uncomfortable sensation of being stretched.

“How are you feelin’?” Hosea asked after a minute, his finger now slipping in and out easily. “Anything hurts?”

And while it was of no real surprise for having had Hosea as his lover for a long time now, the wonder of feeling no trace of pain left him almost giggling with delight.

“None. It’s… strange but not unpleasant.”

Hosea smiled. “Not unpleasant is a good start. Let’s see if we can improve that. Ready for a second finger?”

Dutch’s nod resulted in a short but sharp sensation of loss as Hosea’s finger slipped out of him so that he could add an extra layer of jelly onto his hand. His index returned home soon enough, however, accompanied by the gentle pressure of a second finger against his slightly loosened entrance. Hosea’s other hand drifted through the hair across his chest until it found his nipple and pinched it in another demonstration of his maddening ability to merge teasing and tenderness in the same gesture.

Dutch let out a loud sigh when Hosea inserted that second finger, a sound lost between a gasp and a silent moan. The stretch was definitely sharper, dancing close to discomfort without ever touching it. Soon, however, the intimate caress grew more defined, more _pleasurable_. His core tightened and shivered as he was being worked loose by the heat of Hosea’s fingers in slower, more tantalizing beats.

“You’re doing wonderful, dearest,” Hosea soothed him, his breathing tickling his collarbone as he kept rubbing his nipple in rhythm with the back and forth movement of his fingers. “Making me so proud. How did I get so lucky?”

The sensation of cold jelly against his skin had dissolved into the heat of his walls molding against Hosea’s fingers, taking away with it the strangeness to leave only this unknown feeling of being _filled_. The slick sounds of Hosea working him open soon conquered every other sound, sending something primal into his blood and his cock, reawakening the nerves that had threatened to go dormant when Hosea had first entered him.

“I—I’m the lucky one,” Dutch stammered, feeling that tendril of heat created by Hosea’s touch coil up inside him, titillating the muscles of his lower stomach.

Hosea’s mouth gladly drank the praise in another tender kiss, his fingers keeping up their regular pumping motion, patiently waiting until not even a crumb of resistance was left on their path.

“Hosea… Feels good,” he moaned after another stretch of time had passed, punctuated by the wet and obscene sounds of Hosea’s fingers working him.

“Hmm, it does, doesn’t it?” Hosea cooed, eyes twinkling with joy and relief as Dutch reacted with more and more enthusiasm, be it through whimpering words, stifled groans, or the unconscious jerks of his limbs. His smile grew impish as he pressed his lips against Dutch’s ear and whispered, “Wanna see if it can get better?”

His motions started gaining speed, leaving Dutch to pant into Hosea’s neck as he grasped the back of his neck, sinking his fingers into the pale hair.

Then Hosea’s movements gained _strength_ , driving deeper into him, stealing a loud _keening_ sound from his lungs, making him wonder how far Hosea could go, if there was more hidden pleasure to be found inside of him.

He got his answer when the tips of Hosea’s fingers brushed _something_ inside him. A brutal, _violent_ flash of pleasure cut through him, contracting his core as fiery waves crashed over him, snapping his muscles taut and kicking a roaring moan out of him.

It took him an unknown number of seconds to realize how loud his cry had been, and another couple to take in Hosea’s soft laughter.

“Yup, here it is,” he chuckled fondly, decreasing the amplitude of his movements to allow Dutch to regain at least a partial grip on himself before planting a kiss on the man’s cheek.

“ _Holy shit_ ,” he heaved, blinking his senses back into him and staring at Hosea as if the man had grown a third eye in the middle of his forehead. “W—what did you _do?_ ”

“Introducing you to the hidden wonders of your beautiful body,” Hosea grinned. “You like that?” he asked, his tone hitting a lower note.

“ _Yes._ I… It felt good before, but I was also wonderin’ where all the fuss about all this came from, and _holy shit_ … Fuck.”

“Very soon, my dear.”

And with no further warning, Hosea pressed his fingers that newly discovered bundle of nerves again, and _again_ , their tips seemingly bound to it as they rubbed slow and regular circles against it, ruthlessly reducing Dutch to nothing but pure _reaction_ ; he wriggled, bucked, groaned, _yelped_ , both trapped and freed in Hosea’s grasp, at the mercy of his touch, of his words, of the trembling stream of worship engulfing his mind like a silken cocoon while his body was being consumed by this new form pleasure.

“Third finger, dearest?”

“Please please, _yes, please!_ ” he whined in the crook of Hosea’s neck, fisting his hair and clawing at his back while his hips rolled back to meet his fingers, pressing his cock against Hosea’s body.

Hosea’s fingers didn’t leave him his time, only receding to a more collected stimulation, abandoning that wonderful spot. The moan that escaped Dutch’s lips carried visceral frustration as his hips kept chasing Hosea’s thrusts, seeking that powerful friction with blind stubbornness. Another low-pitched complaint resonated through the room as Hosea’s frame slid away from him again.

“I got you,” his partner whispered, now so close to his throbbing cock. “You’re doing so good, Dutch, so good.”

With a swift movement of his elbows, Hosea spread Dutch’s thighs even wider before moving his free hand to the firm expanse of skin stretching between his balls and hole. He kept his fingers as light as wisps of smoke, making Dutch’s legs quiver around him. Then, as mindful as he’d been since he’d stepped into that room, as he’d always been when they both stripped themselves off all the constricting pieces of armor they wore during the day, Hosea inserted a third finger.

Dutch hissed, feeling the stretch more acutely than he’d anticipated, biting his lip as he forced air in and out of his lungs through his nose. Hosea pressed that taut, sensitive skin above his entrance, tickled it with his tongue, liquefying the tension away with small but potent flashes of pleasure while his fingers remained still inside of him.

“You can hold my head here if you want,” Hosea breathed against him.

Dutch blinked through the dizzying fog, rewinding Hosea’s offer three times in his mind, the implications dawning on him like drops of rain.

Hosea had teased him and sucked him countless times in the past, had even taught Dutch how to put his own tongue to good use. He’d been slow, he’d been urgent, merciful, remorseless in his taunting, exploring all the ways he could turn Dutch’s muscles into goo and his mind into a puddle. And every time, he’d been open and attentive, mindful of Dutch’s boundaries, whether they be secret or confessed—and God knew that Hosea had been able to draw confessions out of him with an ease that had almost frightened him at first. In return, Dutch had been granted the vision of Hosea’s vulnerabilities, had been given a glimpse of his limits, and had always kept a careful distance from them.

Hosea had always refused to be held when he lied between his legs, and Dutch had never pried, never sought to convince Hosea to let themselves try.

“No, it’s… it’s fine, I know you don’t like it,” he faltered, stretching his neck to catch Hosea’s eyes. “I don’t need to… You always said it makes you feel—”

“I know what I said,” came the response, soft, but assured like the roots of an oak tree. “But it’s okay _with you_.”

Then, sensing Dutch’s reluctance, Hosea lifted his golden gaze, shimmering with a truth such as only profound trust could uncloak.

“You make it okay. You’re _home_ , b’shert.”

A weight lodged itself into Dutch’s throat. He felt a burn behind his eyes, something entirely different from the fire fed by Hosea’s fingers. He raised his own to cup Hosea’s cheek, fighting off the strain in his core as he maintained his head up to look at him, pouring into his eyes the humility and love beating inside his heart all thanks to that man. Hosea brushed his palm with his lips and guided Dutch’s hand towards the hair growing behind his temple before lowering himself back between his thighs.

_Home._

Dutch’s posture snapped when Hosea’s fingers resumed their waltz, his hole now perfectly used to their combined girths. Another rumble shook his chest as Hosea spread them apart inside him, pressing them tight against his walls and stretching him further. His own fingers tightened in Hosea’s locks like an iron clasp while his cock twitched against his stomach, leaking and aching for more.

“ _Hosea…_ Hosea, I need—”

“Yes?” Hosea replied, the smirk in his voice painfully obvious.

“C’mon, Hosea, you goddamn know…”

“I ain’t quite sure I do,” his partner insisted, pushing his three fingers a tad deeper.

“Y—You goddamn… _bastard_.”

“Attitude, Dutch.”

“Just _fuck me_ , please!”

Hosea’s fingers slipped out of him, leaving an unbearable sensation of emptiness behind them. His partner’s mouth was on his the next second, sucking his broken pleas and trembling moans out of him while his tongue caressed his with the devotion of sincere apologies and heartfelt promises.

“You’re doing so well. So well, Dutch.”

The swollen arc of Hosea’s cock lined itself with his. Hosea’s breathing soon dissolved into quiet panting, so similar to his own they became each other’s echo. They pressed their bodies flush together, chest against chest, groin against groin, their hips rolling into a dance now too familiar and practiced to require any adjustment.

“God. You’re such a sight,” Hosea gasped in between kisses. “I wish there was a mirror here. I’d show you. Make you see how beautiful you were wrapped around my fingers, begging for more.”

Dutch groaned, bit Hosea’s bottom lip before licking into him with desperate hunger, rutting harder against Hosea as the evocative weight of his words whirled down to his core. It was a reaction he had displayed more often than not, and which Hosea never failed to notice and nurture.

“You want it, dearest? Wanna be filled with my cock?”

“ _Yes!_ Yes, _please_ , Hosea, please— _ah_ —need you… need you _so much,”_ he begged, way past the point of caring, drowning in the satisfaction of lying in the embrace of the only person who could get that from him.

“Need you too, b’shert,” Hosea breathed against his throat before arching himself up, teasing yielding to earnestness.

Dutch’s arms shot up above him to grasp and card through Hosea’s hair one last time before the man finally kneeled between his bent legs. He noticed then that Hosea had grabbed the second pillow resting by his head. He gave Dutch a gentle slap on his ass, a gesture that would have made him purr if he wasn’t being so devoured by lust. Still, Dutch needed no other incentive to follow Hosea’s cue and raise his hips. Once the pillow was comfortably secured between his lower back and the bed, Hosea drew more jelly from the tin resting on the far corner of the bed and worked his cock slick and wet in quick, determined jerks. When he was done, he took hold of Dutch’s thighs, sliding the whole expanses of his palms on their undersides in worshipful strokes before hoisting them up around his hipbones. Dutch felt a hot, blunt weight line up against his entrance, and trembled in frantic anticipation, his eyes closing as his brain flooded him the kaleidoscope of yet unknown possibilities waiting for him.

The air shifted above his thighs and cock before the flat of a hand spread on his lower abdomen.

“Look at me, dearest.”

Hosea’s voice was softer than silk. Opening his eyes turned out to be the easiest thing. They were welcomed and embraced by this unique hazel light, warmer and brighter than the petals of sunflowers offering themselves to clear summer skies.

“I’m here,” Hosea said, and it was like his voice had come from Dutch’s heart.

His own fingers glided across his chest, slid over the back of Hosea’s hand, wrapped themselves delicately around his wrist, resting there when his thumb found the beating river of his pulse.

_Alive._

_The both of them._

“I’m here,” Dutch whispered back.

Their eyes remained locked as Hosea leaned in closer, allowing Dutch’s hand to trace back the extent of his veins until it reached his shoulder. It remained there as Hosea gently pressed his cock against the ring of his entrance without breaching it, careful, patient. Then, after Dutch took a steadying breath, he increased the pressure until the tip finally entered him. Dutch’s fingers immediately clenched Hosea’s shoulder, his last breath stolen from him as he felt himself being stretched wider than before. His face grew tight as discomfort merged with bliss, his next exhalation punching out of him after forgetting to breathe. He waited for actual pain to sizzle through his core any second now… only to sense that mild discomfort melt like snow under the sun. Hosea waited too, his breathing loud like the wind. When Dutch’s sighs grew relaxed and his expression went from taut to expectant, Hosea eased himself deeper inside him, just as slowly and carefully as before, inch by inch. Eventually, Hosea had sunk himself to the hilt, leaving them both gasping as if half the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. A low moan climbed its way out of Dutch’s throat when Hosea’s body was pressed tight against his thighs and ass.

Hosea pressed his forehead to Dutch’s, leaving them to drink each other’s breath like two parched souls lost in a desert as their eyes closed for a brief moment, inviting their other senses to memorize each other’s body like holy scriptures.

Dutch thought he had understood what it meant to be filled a few minutes ago. But now, as he lied there, with Hosea buried inside him more profoundly than he had ever pictured, filling him in every way a person could be filled, he understood the extent of his ignorance, and with that teaching came _bliss_.

The world had expanded and shrunk on itself all at once. It was both changed and unchanged, as if its most secret truth had been revealed. It had become what it was _supposed_ to be, and, by doing so, had become _so much more._

The world could be contained inside that small hotel room.

The _world_ was nothing but _Hosea and him._

“ _God._ ”

Hosea’s voice was more shaken than he’d ever heard it. His own voice broke with the weight of his desire when he spoke the only two words he could:

“Please, move.”

And so Hosea initiated a gentle, lazy pace.

Dutch choked on his breath again, but this time, delight had taken possession of his lungs, squeezing the air out of him. Their gazes found each other, tethered to the warm colors dancing around their pupils. Hosea’s brows were knitted together, his focus never straying away from Dutch’s crumbling expression as each thrust shot ecstasy through his veins.

“Look at you. Doing so well… _God, Dutch…_ ”

The bedframe started cracking faintly. Dutch’s moans were only growing louder as Hosea maintained the same tender pace but drove his hips just a bit harder. Dutch’s heart was beating so loud and fast it might have burst out of his chest anytime soon. But the most hypnotizing, intoxicating sounds of all were his partner’s pants against his skin and the sinful noise of his cock sliding in and out of him.

One of Hosea’s hands reached for his neck, traced the valley of his Adam’s apple while the other slithered under Dutch’s knee, and propped his thigh higher against his flank. Dutch yelped as Hosea’s cock rammed into him even deeper than before, making his legs spasm until they fully circled Hosea’s waist as pleasure punched through him like a cannonball.

Hosea grunted into his neck, panting through the effort as Dutch’s heel dug into his ass, inviting him closer, _deeper_. His pace grew quicker as a result, just enough to content Dutch’s constant desire for _more_ , but never forsaking that commitment to tenderness, that visceral need to _feel every inch_ , catch every twitch, every gasp, every shiver, and respond to them in every way that would leave nothing but pleasure and comfort.

“S- _Shit…_ Hosea, feels so good, you— _”_

It was right at this moment that Hosea shifted his angle and brushed that magic spot inside him. The wail that came out of him was sure to wake up every sleeping tenant on their floor if not the second as well. Both of them were so lost in the growing ocean of their ecstasy they were far past caring.

“ _Fuck! Yes! Don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop—”_

“Won’t... You feel so good. S—so good for me…”

Dutch’s cock was now firmly trapped between their stomachs, subjected to the sweet, unyielding torture of friction with each of Hosea’s thrusts. Despite how the hot tendrils of bliss coiled tight in his core, robbing him of the full control of his muscles, Dutch could only follow the unstoppable waves of Hosea’s hips and drive back against his cock, chase that pleasure, forsake every other sensation if need be.

With each thrust making him feel more complete than he’d ever felt, with each caress of their fingers roaming over the expanses of their chests, sides, backs, with each exchange of breath, blending of broken voices, and kiss on their bruises and scars, came the sweet epiphany that he should have tried this a long time ago.

This was _nothing_ like he’d ever experienced.

Nothing like what he’d _expected_.

_It was all so much better._

Another dexterous push of Hosea’s hips hit that wonderful, _wonderful_ place inside of him, sending such a powerful flare of pleasure to his cock Dutch almost went blind and jerked violently under Hosea. He shot his arm behind him, hoping to cling to the headboard to anchor himself against the surge that had nearly swallowed him whole only to miss and brutally shove his knuckles against the wood. A small bark of pain slithered amidst his groans, followed by a broken, pleasure-fed giggle. Hosea tittered with him before letting go of his thigh to interlace their fingers, keeping both their hands pressed on the bed, above Dutch’s head.

The gesture was so simple, could have been deemed inconsequential as the rest of their bodies were losing themselves in the oldest dance of the world. Yet it was this gesture, Hosea tangling their fingers together, refuting the very notion of _pain_ as they cherished their bond in the most intimate and sacred of ways, that liberated the most beautiful truth concealed in Dutch’s heart in the shape of two tears slipping out of his eyes.

It was a truth he’d known for so long and yet hadn’t dared speak, shackled by fears he was barely aware of, much less capable to explain. A truth he should have confessed earlier, before death had brushed Hosea’s neck and left its mark there.

And yet, wasn’t this moment the most perfect instant to deliver it?

“Hosea, I need to—” another thrust stole his breath, making him clutch Hosea’s hair, nearly shooting all other considerations out of his mind as everything turned into _pleasure, hot, burning pleasure_ , “—God, I’m close, _I’m so close_. I need to—”

Hosea’s soft moans made it near impossible to concentrate as he kept pounding into him at that delicious, perfect pace.

“Yes, come on, dearest, c’mon,” Hosea pleaded, sucking on the exposed skin of his throat.

Dutch whined, a broken, desperate thing, heaving as Hosea kept moving in and out, _in and out_ …

He needed to say it. He needed to say it before his mind shattered and slipped into the soft cotton of blissful torpor, before he forgot to say it _again._

He needed to say it because every day was a gamble, and _this_ was the one thing he refused to lose.

He needed to say it because they were _alive._

“C’mon,” Hosea insisted, “let go, let it all go, I wanna feel you as you come. Let me _feel_ you, all of you.”

It was a miracle in more ways than one that Dutch managed to find that last shred of coherent resolve in his brain while his cock screamed for release. All at once, his grasps on Hosea’s hair and hand grew tighter, his fingers digging in as deep as the last remnant of his strength could allow while he kept his orgasm at bay just long enough to breathe out the most important truth of all:

 _“I love you, I love you, I love you_ —”

Hosea _snarled_ into the hollow of his throat, his jaw clenching as tight the hand tangled with Dutch’s as he came down to his arms and _slammed_ into him deeper than he’d ever done before.

White exploded in Dutch’s vision as he came, painting Hosea’s stomach with the long streaks of his seed while his walls fluttered around his cock. His mind went blank as his body shook with the intensity of his orgasm, but the spasming that wracked his muscles didn’t stop as Hosea kept pounding into him, obeying the incoherent stream of _‘don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop’_ spilling from Dutch’s mouth. One of Hosea’s thrusts hit his spot once more, making him gasp under the assault on his over-stimulated nerves, his cock twitching between them as Hosea kept fucking him through his prolonged aftershocks. The hand that had been holding his hadn’t moved, still pressing it hard against the mattress. He squeezed Hosea’s hand back as his partner struggled to gather his voice.

“I love you too. Neshama sheli, _I love you too, so much… I—God, I love you.”_

Each of his sighs and moans was sharper than the last. His pace was growing uneven, losing to an unpredictable staccato as his own release carved his way through his focus. Dutch combed his fingers through his hair, relishing their softness, inhaling the musk of Hosea’s skin as he desperately fought to remain aware as his lover reached completion.

“I love you,” he whimpered, tasting the nectar of those three words on his tongue, again and again, fighting through the tremors of his body to speak them out loud.

“ _I’m_ … Where do you want…?”

“Inside, please inside,” he begged. “Lemme feel _all of you._ ”

It was all it took for Hosea to come inside him with one last deep thrust, his back snapping taut as he spilled himself in powerful pulses inside Dutch’s safe warmth. His entire frame twitched with the aftermaths of his release as they both clung to each other with white knuckles, as if fearing the ocean of rapture that had swept over them would drive them apart. Dutch quaked with overstimulation, his arms and legs locked around his partner to keep him close. They remained thus for a few seconds suspended in time until the bone-snapping tension that had taken hold of their muscles finally fled out of their bodies like air out of a pierced balloon.

Hosea’s body sagged and molded itself against his, remaining there for an unfathomable stretch of time, waiting for the trembling of his limbs to be absorbed in the heaving of their chests. Once he’d caught his breath, Hosea propped himself on one elbow to carefully pull out, smearing the expanse of his stomach with Dutch’s spent as their bodies shifted, drawing a stifled moan out of his partner in the process. His arm was only able to support him for so long, and so he guided himself back against the furnace of Dutch’s skin, pressing his forehead against his temple and nuzzling his cheek.

“I love you,” Hosea panted again against him. “I’ve loved you for so long.”

That was when Dutch noticed them.

Thin damp lines, running from his half-lidded eyes to his chin. One of them almost looked like a streak of silver as it caught the weak light of the room.

Dutch slowly pulled their still intertwined hands between them, bringing his thumb to Hosea’s cheek to wipe the wet tracks, never breaking the embrace of their fingers; Hosea used the opportunity to press a kiss on his knuckles, a tired but grateful smile stretching his lips. Dutch kissed his hand in return.

“I love you too,” was the only possible response he could offer to the most precious gift of all.

Their lips met, sharing a series of lazy but reverent kisses that could only be interrupted by soft chuckles and broken giggles, neither of them truly knowing why they had never said it before.

Perhaps it was simply a truth that would always be found elsewhere before it would be shaped into words. Perhaps they’d found it in a laugh shared around the fire. Perhaps it lied in a touch first, or even a look.

Dutch didn’t have the faintest idea.

But here, as their bodies lied together, tangled in the sweet beatitude of their lovemaking, Dutch realized he didn’t care. Some truths needed only to exist.

Their hands remained intertwined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Yiddish translations (which I totally stole from platonicharmonics's headcanons and works, because they're wonderful).
> 
> _Shefele - > lamb_  
>  _Neshama sheli - > my soul_  
>  _B’shert - > soulmate_  
> 
> 
> Also, I hope you understand if I chose this title and kept "The First Time Dutch Bottomed" and "The First Time They Said I Love You" a secret ^^
> 
> Thank you for going through the entirety of this endless chapter/story!


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